Red Pyramid
by SilverDragon54
Summary: Follow Grissom through hell and back as his ordeal in Silent Hill continues. An AU crossover fic inspired by a gift, no spoilers, GSR. Best read alone and in the dark. Celebrate the new year with chapter 8!
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I know I said I'd wait until the whole fic was finished before I posted anything, but I wanted to share this first chapter for Halloween. There is much more to this story, but the rest must wait. Enjoy!

_What was that old saying? If you're going through hell, keep on going. You might get out before the devil even knows you're there._

_Fat fucking chance. He escaped from hell once, and he continues to be brutally punished for it. _

_"You belong here."_

_Disembodied voices taunt him as he runs blindly through the endless tangle of corridors. Sara's terrified screams echo down every hall, and around every corner. Thick fog obscures his vision. The heavy odor of mold and old blood make him dizzy. It's hard to breathe for the stench of death in the air. The vicious pain in his head clouds his mind, encouraging fear to strip away all rationality. _

_Dead end after dead end and Sara can still be heard from afar, begging for help he cannot give. It's so unfair; she shouldn't be here at all. He was brought here against his will, lured by a bug-riddled corpse. He was brought here to die in some fanatical ritual. The madman responsible, however, neglected to factor in the wrath of Sara Sidle. She __**chose**__ to search for him. She interrupted the ritual at great personal risk. She saved his life. He can't let her be punished for that. He won't._

_"There is no escape from Silent Hill."_

_Maybe not for him, but he would make damn sure Sara got out, even if it kills him. _

_But first he must __**find**__ her. _

_Doubling back from yet another dead end, something...different catches his attention. This corridor doesn't branch off like the others. It continues on as far as he can see, dissolving into pitch black at the end. Another scream reaches his ears, much closer this time, and he does his damnedest to coax just a little more speed from his aching legs. His lungs scream at him to stop and rest; how he would love to collapse into a corner and catch his breath, but the air is becoming far too dense. If he stops now he'll never find the strength to get going again. A mistake Sara would surely pay for with her life._

_He abhors even contemplating the depths of Silent Hill's cruelty, but the choice is not his to make. The rapidly darkening corridor is spawning equally dark mental images. The depressing train of thought is derailed by a savage kick to his shin mid-stride, sending him crashing to the ground in a panting, bleeding heap._

_Where the fuck did that come from?_

_The fall kicked up a suffocating cloud of mold-laden dust, and the pain behind his eyes ratchets up another notch in response. He's __**so**__ dizzy..._

_He's almost thankful for the total darkness; seeing the world swim in front of him would surely make him sick right now. _

_A harsh whisper tears into his mind, and he cringes in pain. Covering his ears is an instinctive response, but completely ineffective._

_"Nothing is to be gained from floundering about at random. You must follow the path."_

_Follow the path? Oh Jesus he does __**not**__ want to think about this. The path he was led down last time ended on a sacrificial slab. Only Sara's intervention had saved him. Now she's lost in the hell that was meant for him. _

_"Grissom?"_

_Sara's voice again, tangibly close, but __**where is she?**__ Tears of frustration prick at his eyes._

_"Gris, please..."_

_Enough! He would find Sara, or die trying. Tapping into the absolute last of his reserves, he hauls himself back to his feet. The rusted metal wall bites into his fresh abrasions, but it's the only available support as he waits for a wave of vertigo to pass. He doesn't remember hitting his head when he was tripped, but he must have, as he can feel blood dripping into his eyes. Maybe that's why the faint glow further down the hall is tinted red._

_Wait...was that there before? Still leaning heavily against the wall, he takes a few shaky steps toward it. _

_No, no no no no no this is __**wrong**__. Everything about it feels wrong. The overpowering stench of old blood is getting stronger with every painful step, and he still limps onward. He's being drawn to the red glow and is powerless to stop himself. Nothing he wants any part of is waiting for him there, and he can't stop himself. _

_"Grissom!"_

_The red glow envelops him. He is being summoned..._

_The raspy voice is not spoken; it's implanted directly into his mind, and the pain flares unbearably._

_"You will take me to her."_

"**NO!**"

A breathless and terrified Gil Grissom scrambled to sit upright in bed, beads of cold sweat trickling down his face.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: A HUGE thank you to the good folks who put this on story alert. A huge apology as well, because the rest won't be posted until the story is finished. I just felt the need to post this today.

Sitting up suddenly was _not_ a smart thing to do; the pain that shot through his head was absolutely blinding. Grissom hated that it was a reflex he had no control over. He thought he felt a soft pair of hands guide him back down to his pillow, or was it a residual fragment of the dream? It was so hard to tell sometimes. The hands returned, gently stroking his hair, and a voice joined them. "You stay put. I'll be right back."

Sara? Sara was there? She really was there. She was safe. Finally, Grissom could breathe a sigh of relief.

While the nightmares were nothing new, lately waking from them had become just as disturbing.The stench of death lingered in the air, as did the cruel, taunting voices. Even the blood-stained labyrinth was taking longer to fade from his vision. He was starting to wonder if any of it ever truly stopped.

No, stop that! Stop that right the fuck now. Silencing the panicked thoughts that followed the dreams sometimes required a mental slap across the face. Giving in to the paranoia only made his headaches worse. But was it really just paranoia? He always had trouble believing that all of the awful nightmares and hallucinations, his entire hellish ordeal in Silent Hill, were simply a product of his forced drug overdose, despite what the doctors had told him. On the other hand, once the worst of the withdrawal passed, his mind cleared far too quickly to be explained any other way. He ultimately decided that further observation was in order.

Another stab of pain began to heighten the nausea he'd been trying so hard to ignore.

Shortly after "the incident", he understood the overwhelming frequency and intensity of the nightmares and flashbacks, and he was repeatedly assured they would diminish in time. White Claudia's hold on his mind indeed loosened, and the constant, sickening fear finally eased to the point where he could control it. Most of the time. It was by no means easy; he was so easily startled at first, he was quite literally afraid of his own shadow. But he fought back armed with Sara's loving support, detached, objective thinking, and sheer force of will. Progress was made one unsteady step at a time. Returning to work after only three weeks was nothing short of a miracle.

"Gris? You still awake?"

Speaking of divine phenomena...

His guardian angel returned bearing offerings of Advil. She even remembered to grab a water bottle from the supply that wasn't kept in the fridge. Thoughtful little touches like that did more for him than the painkillers ever could. He had no idea what he did to deserve a sweetheart like Sara, but he wasn't about to argue, even if he did have the energy. Instead, he propped himself up on one elbow--slowly this time--to accept her gift. It was a placebo at best, but again, he wasn't about to argue. When it worked it let him sleep, and it was early enough that this night was still salvageable.

The whole placebo-effect-at-best matter frustrated him more than he ever thought it would. Logically, he understood the principle; the pain exists only in his mind, therefore medication is usually ineffective against it. Where it went from there was the problem. Frustration at the psychosomatic pain induced stress, stress further aggravated his headaches, intense headaches were disrupting his sleep, lack of proper sleep made him more prone to the nightmares, and the nightmares provoked these damn psychosomatic headaches. Lather, rinse, repeat. No physical cause, no physical relief, and after more than a year of improvement, the symptoms were escalating. It was an undeniable fact, and it chilled him more than he cared to admit. The evidence never lies.

The vicious circle of thought was mercifully broken by Sara's gentle prodding, and a faint scent of...lavender? He forced his eyes to focus just long enough to make out a small bottle of oil in Sara's hand. A soft smile graced her lips, though the worry in her eyes was obvious. No words were needed; he rolled over, shrugged off the comforter, and let Sara massage the tension away. A weary, yet contented smile tugged at his own mouth as a much more relaxed sleep overtook him.

Well, okay. There was _some_ physical relief.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Ugh...I'm SO sorry this took so long. I promised myself that I wouldn't post this until chapter 5 was finished, and I had to tinker with it for-freakin-ever before I was satisfied with it. I also think I forgot to put in a disclaimer, so I shall do so now. For entertainment purposes only, no copyright infringement is intended, no claim of ownership of CSI or Silent Hill is being made, yada yada yada.

Special thanks to ProWriter11 for the inspiration to get a move on and finish chapter 5. ;) Enjoy!

A few minutes may have passed, or hours, hell, even a few days. Grissom had no idea, and he couldn't care less. For the first time all week, he was finally drifting happily along in an undisturbed, dreamless sleep. His headache was still hanging around, but very tolerable. Only one thing could improve upon the perfection of this moment, and his right arm set out searching for it. Instead of his lover's warm body, he met only empty sheets.

His head snapped up at the sudden, sharp spike of panic, and he very nearly knocked over the bedside lamp in his mad fumbling for it. He clenched his eyes shut against the light and looked away. It wasn't nearly as painful as he was expecting, which was a huge plus. There didn't _seem_ to be anything to panic about...he was at home, in his own bed. His bedroom, not that nightmarish maze. The air in here smelled faintly of Sara's lavender oil, not of old blood and decomposing flesh.

Sara must be up already.

Not being the kind to go parading around in his boxers, Grissom took a moment to pull on an old black t-shirt and his favorite lounge pants. Plain navy blue with a dull orange stripe down the outside of each leg, they mysteriously appeared on the bed one day. Sara simply smiled and shrugged, and claimed, "They were on sale." After a hard day at the lab, those simple sweatpants gave him a warmth and comfort that had nothing to do with the fleecy material.

Sara was nowhere to be found downstairs. All that waited for him was an empty living room, completely dark except for one small lamp left on. Must be Sara's doing; just enough light to navigate by, but not quite bright enough to hurt his still-sensitive eyes. The irrational worry was beginning to creep back into Grissom's mind.

Wrenching control back from the paranoia was much easier if he caught it early enough. _Think logically for a minute. If she's not here, where is she most likely to be? _No, it was too early for work, right? What the hell time _was_ it, anyway? Absently scratching the back of his head, he padded off to the kitchen to find out. The digital clock on the microwave claimed it was 1:37 AM. No, that couldn't be right. If he really had slept so far into a shift, he'd be having a minor meltdown.

Today, however, Grissom just couldn't bring himself to care. Giving a damn took more energy than he was willing to put forth. Instead he was perfectly content to run on auto pilot for a while, and auto-pilot decided it would be a good idea to reevaluate the situation after a nice hot coffee.

Grissom wholeheartedly agreed. Coffee now. Coffee good. Worry later.

While he wasn't one to rely on auto-pilot too much, it sure was a handy thing to have. Good old auto-pilot knew exactly where to find the coffee pot, where he kept his usual mug, and in a pinch it even knew the way to work. And it never got bogged down in trivial details like how there was coffee in the pot when he didn't put it there.

A nice, steaming caffeine fix would be just the thing to disperse the fog surrounding his brain. Coffee in hand, auto-pilot steered him into the living room, where he sank heavily into his leather sofa. The first sip was always the sweetest, but what met his lips was not coffee. What the hell? Puzzled, and feeling just a little cheated, he examined the offending object.

There was a yellow post-it note stuck to his mug.

_G_

_Don't worry about work._

_Catherine would just mother-hen you to death._

_Relax, try to eat something. I'll call if we __really__ need you._

_I left some coffee and yesterday's crossword for you._

_S_

Sure enough, on the coffee table in front of him sat a pen, and yesterday's Las Vegas Sun open to the crossword puzzle. He smiled as he shook his head. Sara could be quite the mother hen herself, and Grissom couldn't be more grateful.

All things considered, it was shaping up to be a pretty good day. His migraine, while still present, was slowly receding; he was deeply cared for by a beautiful woman--and he adored his stubborn little spitfire every bit as much; and now he had the house to himself for a few hours to indulge in a favorite pastime. Feeling every inch the luckiest man in Vegas, he stretched out on the sofa and dug into his puzzle.

And his morning coffee.

The crossword in the Sun was by no means his preferred New York Times, but it served it's purpose. He was feeling better, but still not up to the brainpower his usual puzzles required. Grissom's formidable mind was on perpetual overdrive, and he became terribly restless when he wasn't able to concentrate, so he settled for keeping busy solving inane clues about garden variety subjects. Wood insect, four letters: _tick_. Alaskan bear, six letters: _kodiak_. Two-piece cookie, four letters: _Oreo_. Casino cubes, four letters: _dice_.

Casino cubes? Grissom had to roll his eyes at that.

Mundane task, five letters: _this witless excuse for a puzzle that I just can't lower myself to._ Too many letters? Damn. Concentration took far too much effort to waste on drivel like this, and that tiny flash of annoyance had already let his headache begin to mount a serious comeback. And after all of the trouble Sara went to... Maybe he could find a nice documentary on Discovery Channel instead. It sounded like an idea worth pursuing, but now he had a real dilemma on his hands. He couldn't reach the coffee table while lying on the couch; swapping the newspaper for the remote required sitting up.

Easing himself back into an upright position was a slow, carefully orchestrated process, but he managed it without incident. Gil was cautiously optimistic; he might be able to salvage this surprise day off after all. He laid the pen and newspaper back on the table, still folded open to the crossword, and was about to pick up the remote control, when something very odd caught his attention. What the hell happened to his puzzle?

The few answers he had filled in were gone, his blue ink replaced by a bright, bloody crimson, spelling out words he had not written, in a scrawl that was not his.

_toolate_

The chilling message winded him as if he'd been punched in the stomach.

_yourealreadydead_

Things like this still happened randomly--fragments of his nightmares surfacing in the waking world--and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. He learned to accept that a long time ago. It still took a good deal of conscious effort on his part, but he was even able to tune the images out. Reactions like this anymore were rare, and a reaction so intense was cause for great concern.

The last time he'd heard those words, he was holding Adam Trent at gunpoint, and the arrogant bastard was _mocking_ him! Tossing out vague hints, gleefully withholding any concrete answers, Adam clearly took a perverse pleasure in Gil's fear and confusion. Grissom may have been holding the weapon, but Adam held the power. Even here, a year later, in the safety of his own home, seeing the words again stirred up the same raw emotional response.

The familiar wave of fury sent a tremble through his hands, and poisonous hate creeping through his veins; cold, though it burned like acid.

_Stop it..._

Sweat began to gather at his temples.

_It's over...it's been over for a long time..._

That was a lie and he knew it, and his stomach gave an unpleasant lurch in response.

He may not get to keep his morning coffee after all.

Faithful, merciful auto-pilot made the decision for him; he was more than halfway up the stairs before he realized he'd left the sofa. He would go sit in the bathroom until the nausea passed, then go back to bed.

On shaky legs he staggered toward the bathroom as the pain and incredible pressure in his head escalated even further, keeping a supporting hand on the wall.

It took far longer than it should have to register that the texture of the wall beneath his fingertips had changed. It was neither smooth paint, nor ceramic tile, but metal. A faint, high-pitched sound, almost like a heavy metal gate creaking on its hinges was barely audible in the background.

Fuck.

Panic overtook him instantly; he groped wildly for the light switch not caring about the pain the overpowering brightness would cause. There was nothing to find but more rusted metal. From the total darkness behind him he felt...something forcibly pull him away from the wall, and a cold, clammy hand clamped over his mouth smothering his frightened shout. A powerful arm joined the hand pulling him into a tight chokehold. Panic flared into full-blown survival mode, fueled by the sudden lack of oxygen. He bucked and thrashed against his unseen assailant, but he only succeeded in tiring himself out; his opponent was far too strong.

An eerily calm voice hissed in his ear.

"Stay close and _stay quiet_."

Bile rose in his throat as recognition sank in. He knew that voice. That voice brought nothing but pain and misery, and now it was trying to lead him somewhere he was sure he didn't want to go. It was too dark to see anything but formless shadows, but Grissom could picture that familiar, arrogant smirk plastered on his attacker's face.

How did this happen? Not even a minute ago he had been at home, and now he was...well, he had no idea where he was, and Adam Trent had him in a headlock. He flinched as the arm around his throat shifted; he fully expected to feel the sharp prod of a knife tip against his carotid, or worse, a syringe. No, far more disturbing than that, Trent released him. Gil spun around trying to grab Trent before he could disappear. If he was lucky he might be able to beat some information out of the smug bastard. Okay, that wasn't very likely, but he'd love to try anyway.

His blind reaching was in vain--his captor was nothing more than a voice taunting him from the darkness, sounding so close, but always just out of reach. "If I was going to kill you, I would have slit your throat by now. _I'm_ not what you need to worry about here."

Fear and fury fought to a standstill again. What he really wanted at that moment was answers, but he knew he wasn't about to get them from Adam Trent. God, he didn't want to think about how long he was sure to be wandering in the dark this time, lost and alone.

The hand that had been silencing him darted out and snatched his wrist and gave a violent yank. Grissom was very nearly wrenched off his feet, but he managed to clumsily stumble along as he was being led forward. Something is terribly wrong, he thought. He was at the mercy of a man who had tried to kill him, tried to kill Sara! Why wasn't he resisting? Why hadn't he at least demanded to know where he was being taken? _You already know_, he answered himself. _You wouldn't be here if you didn't need to be. _

The pair trudged on in silence through total darkness. as captor and prisoner had arrived at their destination. Grissom's trapped hand was pressed against what felt like a chain link fence as more instructions were hissed into his ear.

"This is as far as I can take you. Keep your left hand on the fence and you won't get lost." Trent snorted, a humorless laugh, but with a deadly earnestness Gil found extremely unsettling. "Believe me, you _really_ don't want to get lost in here. Just don't let go of the fence, and _stay quiet_. When you find it, you'll know." On that cryptic note Trent vanished into the darkness, leaving his charge more bewildered than ever.

Alone, blind, and too numb to move, Grissom slumped against the fence and slid to the ground. Getting his thoughts in order would be no easy task, but he _needed_ to piece together what was going on. It was a very confusing feeling, and he hated it; hated being--literally and figuratively--kept in the dark, furious at being denied the truth of his situation, but did he really want to find out what that truth might be? He also knew perfectly well that his insatiable need to know would win in the end, and he would curse it every step of the way. A million questions and answers just out of reach, he needed some time to stop and _think_.

But since when was circumstance ever kind to Gil Grissom?

That awful sound rent the air again, and all thought came to a literal screeching halt. His head snapped in the direction of the horrible metallic squeal, and he couldn't contain an audible gasp.

Hadn't Adam warned him to stay quiet?

He was suddenly all too aware of just how vulnerable he really was; lost in an unfamiliar place, unarmed, even _barefoot!_ Why the hell hadn't he thought of pulling on a pair of socks when he was getting dressed? And now, just like in every bad horror movie he'd ever seen, he would have to go wandering down a dark corridor looking for the source of an unidentifiable noise.

_Think about it, Gil_, he mused to himself. _Do you think for one second that you have a choice here?_

As much as he hated losing emotional control, it did work in his favor now and then; he welcomed the flush of anger, burning off the chill of fear, melting the bonds that froze him in place. He pulled himself from the ground with a grim determination.

Progress seemed agonizingly slow, but Grissom didn't dare move any faster. He inched along the fence, slowly, deliberately, every ounce of focus spent trying to keep himself as silent as possible. Simple things, really--making sure he wasn't dragging his feet, keeping a hand on the fence without rattling it, forcing panic aside to even his ragged breathing--but they could keep him alive. Oddly enough, maintaining that level of focus even dulled his headache, and pushed aside the nausea that drove him to the bathroom in the first place.

He didn't know why, but that felt like a very, _very_ bad thing.

Almost as if some higher power sensed he was trying to analyze the situation again, it gave him a more pressing concern that demanded his undivided attention. The total darkness ahead of him began to yield to a faint light, an ominous, sickly red. Oddly familiar, but he couldn't place it. Was this what he was supposed to find?

A chilling thought suddenly occurred to him; why is this fence here at all? Fences are generally erected for one of two reasons: to keep something out, or to keep something in. Which side was he on?

No, he couldn't think like that. If he was going to accomplish anything, he couldn't let fear take over. He chose to give in to his inner investigator, and try to find out why he was brought here. It had to be important if Adam went to all the trouble of abducting him from his own bathroom.

It had _better_ be important...

_Just treat this like any other crime scene. _

There didn't seem to be anything significant about this section of hallway, not that the dim light revealed much. The wall at his right hand was made of rusted metal, the fence at his left was made of rusted metal, even the floor felt like rusted metal buried under a thick layer of dust. The only difference between this and any other section of hallway here was the red light on the opposite side of the fence, and the eerie, dappled shadow it cast..

The proverbial grass was no greener on the other side. Gil wasn't exactly eager to find anything special; he was growing very concerned about staying in the same place for so long. But what choice did he have? He shuddered inwardly as he remembered something else Adam had told him a long time ago.

_You're not leaving until you understand._

Whatever he was looking for, he'd have to find it soon.

He was almost ready to give up and move on when an odd shadow on the ground caught his eye. He leaned in close to the fence for a better look. The dust there had been disturbed recently. A decent sized area with what almost looked like skid marks leading up to it, like...

Like somebody tripped and fell.

Grissom's jaw dropped as he realized just what he was looking at. _This isn't possible...it was just a dream..._

He couldn't understand it, but the evidence was right in front of him--the impression left in the dirt when he fell, the footprints he left as he staggered away, and his own bloody handprints on the wall. He took a quick glance at his hands expecting to see the abrasions from the fall, but found nothing.

Thoroughly rattled, he returned his attention to the blood-smeared wall, drawn to his handprints.

Now how the hell did he miss that?

The rust coating the wall gave way to several gaping holes, and thick streaks of blood that looked fresh. He recognized the pattern too: arterial spray. And this carnage was mere feet from where he had fallen. If he hadn't tripped when he did...

He couldn't imagine what sort of weapon could tear through metal so cleanly. He couldn't imagine what could possibly be strong enough to wield such a weapon. He was also pretty sure he would be forced to find out.

Fear came flooding back into his mind, and there was no stopping it this time. From out of nowhere he was blindsided by the urge to abandon the fence and hide in the shadows. It was as if some primal survival instinct sensed the impending danger before his conscious mind was aware of it. The earsplitting metallic squeal sounded again to his immediate right, and Gil discovered that his fears were absolutely warranted. His knees gave out as he shrank back against the wall, watching in abject horror.

A monstrous creature emerged from the darkness, dragging behind it an equally hideous weapon. The reek of blood and death about it was unimaginable. This massive weapon was clearly the source of both the strange noise he'd been hearing, and the gouges in the wall, but his wide-eyed gaze was transfixed upon the monster's face. Or rather, where its face _should_ have been.

This is what he was meant to find. This...thing is why he was brought to this godforsaken place pulled straight from his nightmares. Logically he knew he should be making every effort to take in every detail about it, but his brain refused to cooperate. The lifelong scientist couldn't begin to process what he was seeing. He had never known such terror.

And the beast had yet to acknowledge his presence.

It ignored him and continued down the illuminated stretch of hallway, hauling its burden, twitching and writhing convulsively as it walked. Did it really not know he was there, or was it just not interested?

Grissom was trembling uncontrollably by then, praying that the creature would just leave, praying that it wouldn't hear his racing heart and come to investigate.

He very nearly got his wish. It was almost out of sight when a voice filtered through the fetid air. The creature froze in its tracks, and the bottom dropped out of Grissom's stomach.

Sara...

"Grissom?"

No trace of fear or pain, she sounded far too..._normal _for the circumstances.

_That_ got the creature's attention. It hurried off again--as much as it could hurry being so weighed down by its weapon--making a horrific vocalization as it went. Gil felt sick. He'd never heard anything like it before: a strangled, guttural sound, somewhere between a roar and an inhuman scream.

As suddenly as it arrived, it was gone.

Whether the danger had truly passed or not, Grissom didn't care. He needed out _right the fuck now._ But his traitorous body wouldn't obey; his shaking legs wouldn't support him as he tried to stand. So he wavered and fell back into the wall, and even that betrayed him.

The wall was simply...gone. He fell backwards into nothing.

Before he could fully process what was happening, he slammed into another hard surface, driving what little breath he had left from his lungs. Sara's voice reached him again, clearer than before.

"Sorry I'm late! I picked up dinner on the way home."

Dinner? That made no sense.

Slowly, painfully, his own darkened bathroom came back into focus. He was back? He was back. He was home.

God his head hurt...


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Many apologies again for the long delay. Real life has not been playing nice lately. I think I just need to bury myself in Silent Hill: Homecoming for a while. ;)

Maybe coming to work wasn't such a good idea after all. Clearing a mountain of paperwork was an ordeal and a half at the best of times; between the pounding headache and lack of proper sleep, Gil had no idea what he was signing. He'd been trying to read through the same paper for a good half-hour, and wasn't making any headway. He made a fifth feeble attempt to make sense of the document in front of him, but he just couldn't concentrate. Finally admitting defeat, he pulled his glasses off and buried his aching head in his hands.

What the hell happened last night? He felt almost...hung over. Most of the last twenty-four hours was a blur of pain and fear, but he was pretty sure he hadn't been drinking.

_Think, Gil. Retrace your steps. What _do_ you remember?_

What little he did remember clearly, he wished he could forget.

Sara wasn't home when he woke up. His sweet, thoughtful Sara shut off the alarm clock before it went off so he could sleep in. What was next? Right. The threatening message appearing in his crossword puzzle. Grissom couldn't wrap his head around that. He'd endured similar hallucinations for several months following his near-fatal poisoning, but this felt different.

He couldn't explain how or why, but he _knew_ this wasn't all in his mind. It couldn't be. He also couldn't prove it, which was unbearably frustrating.

But if he wasn't imagining it, then what the hell was happening?

Gil was at a total loss to explain the bathroom incident. It started innocently enough; he felt sick after the crossword scare, so he retreated to the bathroom to wait out the nausea. Someone was waiting for him.

No, that's crazy. There was nobody else in the house. But he swore he remembered being grabbed from behind and taken somewhere.

Things got fuzzy after that. All he could recall were fractured, disjointed images, and a crushing feeling of dread. And that creature...

It was an absurd thought, but a persistent one that refused to be ignored. Assuming the maze and the creature in it weren't just dreams, he had been spared a gruesome death by _Adam Trent_.

Another stab of pain tore through Grissom's tiring brain; he needed to get his mind on something else. Anything else. He cast a weary glance at the tiny, well-worn sofa tucked away in the far corner of his office. Mostly hidden among his bookshelves, almost nobody knew it was even there. He could easily kill the lights, lock the door, and crash for a few badly needed hours. It was a sorely tempting thought, but giving in to it would defeat the purpose of coming to work in the first place.

He was afraid to be alone.

He sighed deeply and leaned back in his chair; this was getting him nowhere. Dreams, theories, vague feelings, tiny snatches of memories, none of it meant a thing. Whatever was happening to him--real or imagined--was occurring for a reason. Something had to be causing it. If he was ever going to _do_ something about it, finally put an end to it, he needed real facts. Maybe then he could figure out where to start.

Grissom absolutely hated not knowing what to do with himself. How was he supposed to keep busy if he couldn't focus? Randomly meandering the halls wouldn't work for long. People would start asking questions. Maybe he could hide out in the break room for a while and think things over with a cold soda. Or better yet, maybe he could hide out in the break room and _stop_ thinking for a while.

Finding the break room deserted was a mixed blessing. While he would have welcomed some company, this way he was free to take care of a few private matters. His friends were professional investigators. They would notice things like Gil popping ibuprofen every few hours. It was more out of habit than actual relief, but that was beside the point. They would get worried, and they would start asking questions he couldn't answer.

God how he wished he had answers to give them.

The other issue to be dealt with was the fierce ache in his right forearm. As if being abducted from a crime scene thousands of miles from home wasn't traumatic enough, at some point he had also been mauled by his captor's dog. Though the injury had long since healed, he was left with permanent nerve damage that extended periods of use--like too much writing--aggravated. It wasn't exactly a private matter since the entire lab knew about it, but Grissom still preferred to keep it to himself as much as possible. On the plus side, nobody could tell him this pain wasn't real; he had an impressive collection of scars to prove otherwise.

Forcing his mind back to the task at hand Gil rummaged through the break room fridge, but nothing held much appeal. He knew it was partially his own fault; he hadn't been feeling well for a few days and hadn't eaten much, despite Sara's gentle prodding. He finally settled for a can of ginger ale, and retreated to the threadbare couch to wash down his painkillers. With any luck, it might just calm his stomach enough that he'd feel up to some food. Namely last night's leftovers that Sara brought in for him. She mentioned what it was at the time, but it hadn't really registered. No matter; Sara seemed to possess some mystical ability to know exactly what he needed, often before he knew himself.

Sara...

He felt awful about worrying her. He felt even worse about hiding the true extent of his affliction; he never told her about what he saw in the newspaper, or what happened in the bathroom. Even the dreams were just remnants of the bad trip that was forced upon him, as far as Sara knew. There was so much more to it. There had to be. But how was he supposed to approach the subject if he couldn't wrap his own head around what was happening? He knew damn well that Sara would find out sooner or later anyway--and he was in for one major ass-kicking when she did--but he just couldn't bring himself to tell her. Not yet.

A can of ginger ale and half a take-out container later, Grissom felt better than he had all day. Maybe even good enough to get some proper sleep. In fact, he was even happy about the most pressing decision on his mind: should he kill off the rest of the shift pretending to do his paperwork, catch a catnap in his office and then go back to pretending to do his paperwork, or just call it a day and try again tomorrow? Maybe he'd rest right where he was until he made up his mind...

_He sat on the floor in the corner of a small room, contemplating the key ring in his hand. He had no idea where he was or how he got there, especially considering the room had no visible doors or windows. He couldn't remember where he was before either, but none of that seemed terribly important. It seemed a little odd to be so calm, but he pushed that aside. All that really interested him at the moment was the mysterious key._

_Besides the plain silver key, the ring also held a small metal cylinder. At first glance there didn't seem to be anything special about it, but closer inspection revealed engraved letters. There was a message written in a tight coil around the entire cylinder._

Tis doubt which leadeth thee to Purgatory

_Something clicked in his mind. He knew exactly what he needed to do; it was right in front of him all along. He stood and crossed the room to face the far wall. As doubt faded, so too did the illusion before him._

_The wall never was a wall, but a door--ancient and heavy, made of thick iron bars. It almost looked like the door to a prison cell block, but the long hallway that lay beyond was too dark to make out any real details. All he knew for sure was something very important was waiting for him. All he had to do was unlock the door. _

_With a sick feeling of foreboding he couldn't quite explain, he slid the key into its lock. Before he even had a chance to turn it, the door..._

...slammed shut more forcefully than intended, startling Grissom awake.

"Oh geez," Catherine gasped, nearly as rattled as her supervisor. "Grissom! I'm sorry, I thought you were just...zoned out. Did I wake you up?" She absently fiddled with the tab of her root beer can as she spoke, but caught herself. Better to let the foam settle after that little freakout.

Gil didn't hear the actual words, only something that sounded vaguely like an apology. Transitioning back to reality from a disturbing dream was a painfully slow process anymore, especially when he actively resisted. He had been so close to...to...what? He had no trouble recalling the pointless nightmares, why did he have to lose the dream he _wanted_ to keep? Resistance was futile; the tiny room, the mysterious key, the hidden door, everything slipped away as the break room came back into focus.

Catherine's shock wore off completely when Grissom didn't acknowledge her. Granted, she probably scared him worse than he did to her, but something still didn't feel quite right. She had known him long enough to tell when he was in pain and trying to hide it. She took a seat next to her friend and gave his shoulder a gentle shake.

"Gil?"

He finally turned to look at her, though he was still struggling to wake up properly. The poor guy looked like he hadn't slept in days. His tired, bloodshot eyes spoke of something more serious than a garden-variety migraine, but what? As much as Catherine wanted to intervene, to demand to know exactly what was going on, she knew better than to confront him directly. For now, anyway. No, she had to tread carefully.

"Head still hurt?" she asked quietly. He answered with a weary nod.

Great, now she felt even worse for scaring him. There had to be something she could do to help him. Or more specifically, something he would _let_ her do to help him. And she happened to have just the thing in mind.

"How does a nice distraction sound?" she offered with a playful smile. "Nick and Greg could use a hand at their scene. You can go hide from your paperwork for a while."


	5. Chapter 5

As tired as he was, Gil didn't try to sleep on the ride over to Nick's 419. Instead he was content to stare out the window and let his mind wander. Anything was a welcome distraction from the dull throbbing behind his burning eyes. Sadly, the only place his mind felt like wandering to was the dream he couldn't remember. All he was able to retain of it was an eerie sense of peace. He didn't understand why that unsettled him so badly. It should be a _good_ thing, right?

That thought would have to go on the back burner for a while; they had arrived at the scene. There would be plenty of time for brooding later.

Catherine didn't have all the details, but she had shared what she knew before they left the lab; a security guard at an indoor self-storage facility discovered a body in one of the lockers. It appeared that the unfortunate victim suffered a well-placed blow to the head, but Doc Robbins would find out for sure what killed him. It wasn't like Nick and Greg couldn't handle things themselves, but there was lots of ground to cover, and the scene itself was very cluttered. SuperDave was probably removing the body already, but an extra pair of hands would still be a massive timesaver.

A large, garish mural of a poker hand greeted them at the main entrance; three aces and a pair of kings hovered above the company name, "Full House Self-Storage". Catherine made a disgusted noise. "God...is anything in this town _not_ named after a bad gambling pun?" Gil simply cocked an eyebrow. He was hardly in the mood to appreciate the feeble attempt at humor. The sooner he could settle into the scene and unwind, the better. And with any luck, the atrocious poker theme would be limited to the building's exterior.

The pair ventured into the small reception area and found Greg at the desk, poring over what looked like a binder of sign-in sheets. He glanced up, clearly happy to see reinforcements. "The cavalry's here! We owe you guys big time for this. The party's that way," he informed them, pointing toward the door across from the entrance. "Hang a left, go through the loading area, and turn left again waaay down at the end of the hall. Locker 66-D. Nick's down there, and up to his eyeballs in stuff to process."

"And you're hiding out up here?" Catherine asked with a hint of amusement.

"Nothing of the sort! We're...uh...dividing and conquering."

"I'm not buying it."

"Nick and I agreed that dividing the work would speed things up a bit."

"I'm still not buying it."

"Well, the locker's not very big, and the vic's a total packrat, so there really isn't room for both of us to work at the same time..." he trailed off knowing he'd lost.

The supervisors shared a skeptical look. Greg hung his head and smiled sheepishly.

"I won Rock-Paper-Scissors."

Greg's directions led them through the darkened loading bay, then onward to the lockers. The sight that met him stopped Gil dead in his tracks: a warren of identical passages, lined with tarnished metal doors. For just an instant a fine mist of rust coated everything, and the cloying scent of fresh blood choked him. God...why did there always have to be so much blood? The vision left as quickly as it had come, but the anxiety stayed.

Catherine was at his side the second he faltered. "Gil?"

She began to worry in earnest when he didn't answer. He didn't have to. The beads of sweat forming on his pale face, and the white-knuckled grip on the handle of his field kit spoke volumes. She placed a steadying hand on her friend's back, wondering if talking him into coming here had been wise after all.

"Are you sure you're up for this?"

He ground out a gruff "I'm fine," effectively ending the conversation. Okay, time to switch to plan B.

She hadn't planned on staying long at first. She just wanted to check in with the boys, and leave Grissom with them. That didn't seem like such a good idea anymore. Call it woman's intuition, call it a touch of paranoia, some powerful force told her that something was seriously wrong, and she needed to keep a close eye on Gil. It happened to be a stroke of great luck that Greg was working up front; she could keep tabs on the situation without being painfully obvious about it.

Grissom seemed to recover fairly quickly from his little scare, or he at least managed to bury it before he reached Nick. Another lapse in front of a witness was unacceptable. Fortunately, Nick seemed firmly entrenched in his own work mode, and it just might keep him from noticing Gil's thinly-veiled edginess.

Greg was quite justified in gloating about working up front; the ten by ten foot locker was cramped and extremely crowded. Nick wasn't even visible at first, only the flashes from his camera as he attempted to document the scene. Towering stacks of boxes, nearly to the ceiling, wobbled precariously as he brushed against them. Catherine, while sympathetic--tight quarters are a royal pain in the ass to work in--was perfectly content to listen to Nick grumbling to himself about "causing a friggin' avalanche in here..."

Right on cue, Nick sidestepped one stack of boxes, only to back right into another. He could only watch dejectedly as the column leaned, then toppled, spilling out the door and crashing at the newcomer's feet. Boxes tore open and debris scattered everywhere; books, old magazines, VHS tapes, and one especially heavy box containing a collection of animal statues. Grissom paused to examine the pile of porcelain shrapnel that was once a majestic unicorn.

Nick groaned as he looked over the mess he'd have to clean up, Catherine tried her best not to let Nick see her laughing, and Gil simply shrugged and smiled.

"It is a monstrous thing, to slay a unicorn."

Gil was settling nicely into the scene; helping Nick clean up and process the locker was mindless enough to ease his headache, and their new discovery --a metal toolbox with a bloody corner--would keep them occupied for a while. Catherine was satisfied enough to leave the boys alone and go pester Greg in the front office.

Nick's accident with the boxes may well have solved the case for them. Further testing was needed to confirm it, but the toolbox was heavy enough that its sharp corner could probably kill if it fell from a distance. The victim's death may have still been a tragic accident, but all of the CSIs enjoyed ruling out foul play once in a while. But first things first, the valuable evidence had to be properly documented before being collected.

Instead of snapping a simple digital picture, Nick stared at his camera wearing a puzzled frown. "What the hell is wrong with this thing?" He tried pressing the shutter several more times, but still nothing happened. "Is that stupid battery dead _already_? Aw hell...Gris? You have your camera with you?"

It was a perfectly reasonable request, so Gil didn't quite know where the sudden unease came from. He complied and handed over his camera, but Nick still couldn't take the photo.

"Man, this is just weird. Yours is dead too."

Cold dread began seeping into Gil's bones.

Nick continued, oblivious. "I have to grab some fresh batteries from the car, and I think I'll ask Greg and Catherine if they've noticed anything. I'll be right back."

He tried valiantly to stamp down the surge of panic before Nick saw it. Really, it wasn't like he was going to be left alone for very long. Nick was only going out to the car, and Catherine and Greg were still in the front office. There was nothing to worry about.

Right?

At any rate, no amount of logic or wishful thinking was helping the growing claustrophobia. He didn't want to wander, but he couldn't stay in the locker any longer either; the tightness in his chest was becoming quite uncomfortable. Waiting in the hallway seemed to be a nice happy medium.

He didn't notice the faint stain on the floor until he was nearly standing on it. It seemed to be a small grouping of blood drops, and they had nothing to do with the current scene. These looked far too old, and gravitational, not spatter or cast-off. Gil frowned. Nick hadn't mentioned them; maybe he hadn't seen them. Nick was probably outside at his car already, so rather than chase after him Grissom decided to collect a sample anyway and ask about it later. A drop of phenolphthalein confirmed that it was in fact blood that he was dealing with, and he pocketed the pink swab for safekeeping.

As he stood again another blood drop caught his eye, and another, and several more. A trail of perfectly round little blood drops led away from the crime scene, down the corridor and around the corner, practically begging to be investigated. Part of him knew that he shouldn't, but who was he kidding? He didn't have to like it, but there was no resisting.

So Grissom followed the trail drop by barely visible drop, until it disappeared into another storage locker--much larger than the first, and completely empty. Barring maybe the roll-up door that was only closed halfway, there was nothing unusual about it. He crouched down right where he was and could plainly see the unremarkable interior, so why was the urge to explore further so overpowering? Nothing about this made any sense; his inner voice of reason was pleading for him to not go in alone, but he just couldn't understand why.

_Two minutes,_ he told himself. _Look around for two minutes, then get out. I can always bring Nick back here later._

He might not last a whole two minutes, judging from how fast his anxiety levels were rising. Where the hell was it coming from? There was nothing in the locker! Nothing but a single fluorescent light buzzing overhead, and...

...a huge mirror dominating the right-hand wall. Okay, that was an odd thing to keep in a storage locker. There was nothing else to examine, so he cautiously approached his reflected self. Geez, he really did look like hell; even the thin white scars on his forehead--another souvenir of last year's dog attack--were beginning to stand out. People besides Catherine were going to start making comments if he didn't get some proper sleep soon.

His self-appointed two minutes were up. Time to leave.

It didn't really occur to him until he turned away from the mirror: his reflection had been alone. He couldn't remember the last time he'd looked into a mirror without the ghostly, nightmarish figures of his tormentors staring back at him. He should be overjoyed.

_Quit while you're ahead, Gil. Just walk away._

He was too caught up in his own thoughts to register the footsteps approaching from behind him.

"Leaving so soon, Doctor Grissom?"

Vincent Lurie. The cruel, mocking voice rooted him to the spot, but he refused to rise to the bait and turn around.

"Oh, I see. You're pretending to ignore me."

Damn right he was trying to ignore it. Still, he stubbornly refused to turn around and face the mirror again, instead heading for the door. Not out of fear, but anger; anger at Lurie for inflicting this hell on him in the first place, but mostly at himself for still giving in to it. No, he must stand firm. He must retain control. He closed his eyes and focused on the mantra that had gotten him through countless episodes before, repeating it quietly to himself. _It's not real. He's not really there. It's not real. He's not really there. _He didn't always believe it, but it helped anyway. "It's not real. He's not really there. It's not real. He's not really there."

Lurie snorted, sounding rather amused. "Aren't I?"

The blast of a gunshot shattered Gil's concentration, along with the fluorescent light. He flinched as shards of glass rained down. A moment of blind panic sent him backing heavily into the roll-up door, which slid shut under the sudden weight taking Gil with it, plunging him into nearly total darkness.

It took a few painfully long minutes for his eyes to adjust, but he could begin to make out reflections in the mirror. If Lurie really had been there, he was gone now. Gil and his mirrored self were quite alone. Both slowly rose from the floor. He knew he really should just leave before he got himself into more trouble, but something just didn't feel right. He couldn't leave until he identified what was bothering him. The mirror seemed to be the logical place to start, considering it was the only item in the locker. He stared a while longer, not exactly sure what he was looking for, then it clicked: there was something wrong with his reflection.

He already knew that he looked as exhausted as he felt, but he was downright shocked to find blood on his face.

A cluster of small cuts streaked across his forehead, looking a bit like road rash. It wasn't actively bleeding, but it still looked recent. His hand instinctively shot up to probe the injury. He couldn't feel anything, and no blood rubbed off onto his fingertips. What the hell was going on?

A theory surfaced in his mind, and his stomach turned just thinking about it. But he had to find out for sure. Ignoring the tremble in his hands, Grissom rolled up his right shirt sleeve.

The only thing marring his bare forearm was the scar from the deep bite wound he'd suffered during the dog attack, but the mirror revealed more abrasions up his arm, and on the palm of his hand.

_No way...that was just a dream._

If it was just a dream, then how was he supposed to explain the "bathroom incident"? How was he supposed to explain the impossible sight before him? The irrationality of it all made his head hurt. He'd had more than enough; he _needed_ to leave.

Gil seemed beyond fear when he discovered that he couldn't open the door. An almost pleasant numbness settled in instead. Tugging on the interior handle wasn't working, and the gap between the door and the floor was too small to work his hands under. Dignity be damned; he needed help to get out of this one, so he tried knocking on the door. "Nick?"

Maybe Nick was still too far away to hear him. He'd have to try something else.

Nick meandered back to the front entrance with fresh, functional batteries in his and Grissom's cameras, still puzzled about why they both went down in the first place. Greg's and Catherine's were fine, so what was up with the others? Was there something actually wrong with them, or did the department just cheap out and buy crappy batteries? He made a mental note to investigate more thoroughly later.

He made it as far as the reception desk before his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Caller ID read "Grissom". Odd; Nick hadn't been gone _that_ long, and he was on his way back. What couldn't wait? "What's up, boss?"

All he could hear on the other end was loud, crackling static, though with some effort, he could make out bits and pieces of broken words.

"Ni....can't....dor.....op..."

"Gris?"

"The door w.....need....elp..."

Catherine and Greg had also taken notice by then. Something didn't feel right, but Nick couldn't quite put his finger on it. "Gris, I can hardly hear you."

"Nick! I can't get......stuc...."

Nick motioned with his head for the others to follow him. "Sit tight, boss. We're coming."

The group came upon the crime scene, but Gil was nowhere to be found. Nick was officially worried now. "Where are you?"

"Follow....od...tr....."

Nick frowned, straining to understand what Grissom was trying to tell him. Follow what? He couldn't see anything to be followed. "Gris, you're breaking up....shit....hey! Bang on the wall! We'll follow the noise."

A faint knocking could be heard from an entirely different section of lockers. What made Grissom go way over there? Only two-thirds of the trio started towards it; Greg lagged behind, a mixture of confusion and growing anxiety clouding his face. "Nick? We need to hurry."

Nick was about to as Greg to elaborate, but he never got the chance. A deafening burst of static made him wrench the phone from his ear, and the distant pounding grew louder and more frantic. "Geez...what the hell happened?"

"_Nick!_"

"Gris? What's going on? You okay?"

"_Nicky, open the door!_"

"Gris?"

"_Hurry! It's coming right through the gla...._"

"Grissom?!"

Another hiss of static, and the phone went dead.

The other CSIs knew it was imperative that they reach their friend quickly, but they weren't prepared for the chaos that they found. The steel roll-up door buckled and shook under Gil's desperate attempts to wrench it open; his muffled pleas for help became less and less coherent as panic took over completely. All of the evidence pointed to a life-threatening situation; they couldn't afford to give in to their own panic. With almost military precision Nick and Greg each seized half of the door handle, Catherine stayed back and readied her gun. Whatever was terrorizing Grissom in there was in for a nasty surprise.

The door refused to budge at first, but the adrenaline overload between the three men finally gave them the upper hand. Something within the roll-up mechanism gave a resounding snap, failing under the strain. As the door flew open, out tumbled a ghastly pale, sweat-drenched Grissom, trembling so violently he couldn't stand. Nick just barely managed to keep him from plowing into the opposite wall, and struggled to keep him from trying to run away.

This was beyond alarming; nobody had ever seen Gilbert Grissom in such a state. What could have done this to him? Nick made a solemn promise to himself to find out exactly what happened. It had to be something major to have turned one of the strongest, most fearless men he ever knew into a terrified, shivering wreck. He needed answers that only Grissom could provide, but that would have to wait. The boss needed some time to recover first. "Come on, Gris," he said, hauling his friend back to his feet. "Let's get you some fresh air."


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: I'm back!!! I am absolutely disgusted with myself over how long it took to finish chapter 8. -__-;; About halfway through, I suffered a major bout of self-doubt and just couldn't be happy with anything I wrote. Nothing sounded right, nothing quite felt right. All I could do was wait for it to flow naturally. Anyhoo, I apologize profusely for the obscene delay.

CHAPTER 6

If Gil had to classify his current condition, he might have used the term "wrung-out sponge". He couldn't remember ever feeling so completely drained. Well, that wasn't entirely true; he'd felt just as wrung out after that horrid White Claudia had finally left his system. But he couldn't shake the feeling that this time he was being hauled into the abyss, not clawing his way out.

Mercifully, Catherine had kept her questions to herself during the ride home. The interrogation would wait until he was feeling better. That didn't seem likely for the forseeable future, and he couldn't decide if that was a bad thing or not. People would leave him alone as long as he was so wiped out, but if he didn't improve soon or started getting worse...

Screw it. Screw everything. His head hurt too much to think. He was too nauseous for painkillers. He was too dizzy to try climbing the stairs to get to bed, so he settled for collapsing onto the living room couch. The nightmares were sure to be hell, but he just needed the sleep too badly.

_God, how did he get himself into this? One minute he's working a relatively bland crime scene, the next he's on his hands and knees trapped inside a storage locker, willing himself not to hyperventilate. A figment of his tortured imagination just shot out the overhead light; he needed to get out before anything worse happened, and he needed help to do it. He fished his cell phone out of his pocket with shaking hands, and prayed it hadn't mysteriously died like the cameras. He'd worry about explaining the situation later._

_"What's up, boss?"_

_Nick's upbeat tone was the lifeline he needed, and gave him the strength to keep his own voice even. "Nick, I'm stuck inside a locker. I can't get the door open."_

_A long pause. "Gris?"_

_He thought he'd made himself perfectly clear. "The door won't open. I need some help to get out of here."_

_Another long pause. Was there a particular reason for Nick not understanding him?_

_"Gris, I can hardly hear you."_

_The reception was just fine on Gil's end. He could feel a cold sweat building; something was very wrong. "Nick! I can't get out of here myself. The door's stuck." _

_The sound of movement came as a great relief. "Sit tight, boss. We're coming."_

_Nick would arrive at the locker they were processing shortly, and Gil had neglected to mention that he was no longer there. The question came right on cue. "Where are you?"_

_Truth be told, he didn't know where he was. He didn't remember the route he took. He'd been too engrossed in the trail of blood drops. "Follow the blood trail!"_

_"Gris, you're breaking up..."_

_Oh shit...he knew exactly what he would be asked to do._

_"Bang on the wall! We'll follow the noise."_

_Adam Trent's instructions to stay quiet came to mind again, but would he really be any better off sitting there waiting to be found? It might bite him in the ass, but he was willing to take the risk if it meant escaping sooner rather than later._

_As time passed incident-free, Gil allowed himself to relax a little. His friends were closing in, and there was no indication that he'd drawn any unwanted attention. He just needed to hang on for a few more minutes, then he'd be free._

_"You know where she is," a voice behind him rasped._

_Gil's head involuntarily snapped toward the mirror, and he found his nightmare staring back. The horrific monster from the maze stood where his own reflection should have been. There would be no hiding from it this time._

_Though the creature had no eyes to speak of--its face was obscured by some kind of metal helmet--its unwavering gaze held an incredible power. He could only describe the bizarre sensation as a separation of mind and body. He was perfectly aware of his increasing efforts to escape, but he wasn't consciously controlling it. While being stripped of control like this was frightening, it also offered a unique perspective on the situation. The crippling terror the creature seemed to induce stayed with his physical body, leaving him able to think objectively. Whether that was a good thing or not remained to be seen._

_It mentioned a 'she'. What 'she' was it talking about?_

_Wait a minute...this was the same monster from his maze dreams. The monster that took an obvious interest in Sara's voice._

_"You know how to find her."_

_What the hell did this thing want with Sara?_

_"You will take me to her."_

_Another more disturbing thought occurred to him. If this really was the same monster from his maze dreams, didn't it already have Sara? Her screams were the only thing that kept him going until he was tripped. It didn't make any sense! He couldn't understand what it wanted! _

_The creature visibly grew angry, brandishing its massive blade. "You will take me to her."_

_Now was not the time to sort this out. He was no good to anyone dead. _

_His actual voice was occupied pleading to Nick, so he focused on projecting his clearest thought. "I won't help you."_

_For a moment he thought he'd sealed his fate as the beast swung its weapon, but the glass held. It struck again and again, roaring its rage, but the glass held. All that was broken was the creature's concentration, allowing Gil's mind to reintegrate with his panic-stricken body. He lost his grip on the cell phone in that moment of disorientation._

_Time seemed to slow as his last drops of strength ran out, trying so desperately to wrench the locker door open. He just let himself fall when it finally gave, collapsing into..._

...the arms of his equally terrified girlfriend. "Gil, if you don't answer me I swear to God I'm calling an ambulance!"

Busted.

It took a few seconds to regain his bearings, and absorb that he'd actually fallen off the couch. Sara was absolutely beside herself, fumbling for her cell phone, ready to make good on her threat. Gil fought through a dizzy spell to reach over and pull the phone from her hand, and sit her down on the floor beside him. He repeatedly assured her that he was fine, it was just a bad dream, but neither of them really belived it. Sara had calmed down somewhat, but she was still far too tense for Grissom's liking. He knew what was coming, and putting it off any longer would only make it worse for both of them. "Go on," he told her, "let me have it. You'll feel better."

She hugged him tighter. "You scared the hell out of me."

Pack your bags, Gil, you're going on a guilt trip.

"I couldn't wake you up. You were thrashing around on the couch mumbling something that sounded like 'I won't help you', and I tried to wake you up. I called you, and shook you, but you just wouldn't wake up. And this isn't the first time it's happened!"

That took Gil by surprise. "I heard you...not this time, but more than once before that. I just assumed it was part of the dream."

Sara was just getting started, fuelled by the frustration at not having the whole picture. She left her spot on the floor and started pacing the room. "You never tell me about your nightmares. I know I don't prod you very hard to talk right away, but I thought you would have told me _something_ by now."

Between the guilt and the rising anxiety, Gil was having trouble breathing. He couldn't keep hiding from her, but telling anyone could be disasterous. For the moment, however, he would stay silent and let her vent.

"Were you ever going to tell me what happened today? I had to hear it from Brass, and he only knows what he heard from Catherine! They said you had some kind of panic attack at a scene."

She turned away from him, and Gil swore he heard a quiet sniffle. It hurt that she didn't turn back to face him, but the pain in her eyes would have killed him. "Gil, why didn't you tell me it was getting this bad?"

He was a miserable sight when she turned back to him; still terribly pale, fixated at a spot on the floor in front of him, shaking ever so slightly. It had been many months since she saw such fear in his glazed eyes. "I haven't told you anything because I don't know what to tell you," he answered in a hoarse whipser. "I don't know what's happening."

The utter defeat in his voice was heartbreaking. They had both been told that some manifestation of post traumatic stress disorder was very likely, and that flareups like this would happen. This one was unusually severe, but it would pass in time just like all the others. What right did she have to lash out at him when he was more scared and confused as she was? Stressing him out would only make things worse. Thoroughly ashamed of herself, Sara knelt down in front of Gil and gathered his hands in hers. "I'm sorry. I'm not mad at you. This is just...frustrating. For both of us. You don't have to fight through this alone, Gil. We can figure this out together."

"Sara, I..." Gil trailed off, not quite sure how to phrase his thoughts. "I have to be extremely careful about what I say. I know Catherine and the boys are going to do everything in their power to downplay it, but Ecklie will find out what happened today. I don't need to tell you what would happen if that meeting goes badly."

Shit. She hadn't considered Ecklie. There was no way Gil could handle another psych evaluation in his current state. He would end up "suspended indefinitely" at the very least.

He looked away, cheeks burning with humiliation. "I can't risk looking any crazier."

He was doing a fantastic job of making her feel sorry for him, but he was still evading the big issue. "Gil, you know I would never tell another soul, living or not, if you don't want me to."

"You won't believe me."

"I already know you're not making it up."

"It's not real..."

"I don't care. It's causing you pain. Please, tell me what happened."

Gil took a moment to gather himself, and surrendered. "All right. Lurie was there. In the locker with me. In the mirror."

Now there was a name Sara hadn't heard in a long time. "_Vincent_ Lurie? From the Debbie Marlin case?"

He nodded. "I know it's sounds impossible, but I saw him in the mirror. That's when I tried to leave." That was a half-truth, but he didn't need to actually see Lurie to know that he had been there.

_Oh God...he's seeing things in reflections again._ That frightened her, but as long as he kept talking with her, they might be able to find out why it was happening now. She urged him to continue.

His blush deepened. "When he shot the light out, I fell against the door and locked myself in."

Shot the light out? That meant broken glass, and possibly even a bullet! Could there really be _physical evidence? _She was about to ask if anyone collected it, but Gil wasn't finished.

"He wasn't alone. That...creature was there too."

"Creature? Do you mean like the dog that attacked you?" She didn't think he remembered the dog attack. The poor guy had been so heavily drugged that whole week, it was unlikely that he would remember anything that had happened.

He shivered at the memory. "No, it's not an animal. At least it _looks_ human. I'm still trying to wrap my head around it myself. It's appeared in the more recent dreams."

"Is that what you were telling 'I won't help you'?"

He nodded again, but didn't elaborate.

"What won't you help it do? What does it want?"

"I don't know."

She didn't think he was lying, but he was holding something back. "You have at least a theory."

Gil swallowed hard. "It said 'You will take me to her.'"

"You think it's talking about me...oh Gil..." Sara pulled him into a tight embrace. "I swear to you, I haven't seen, heard, or felt anything out of the ordinary. If I do, I promise you'll be the first to know."

She hated how lost he sounded. "It hasn't mentioned anyone by name, but I don't know who else it could be."

Sara allowed herself a smile. "It's not like you to jump to conclusions."

Feeling thoroughly loved, Gil managed to return it. "It's not leaving me much evidence to work with."

Evidence..."Shit!" He finally stood, wincing as his stiff knees creaked. "I completely forgot..." Sara took a seat on the sofa, puzzled, while Gil rummaged through the front closet. "This," he said showing off a single cotton swab in its plastic case, "is what got me into this mess in the first place. When Nick stepped out to get the new camera batteries, I found a trail of blood drops leading from the scene to the locker I got trapped in. I meant to hand it over for analysis."

Sara instructed him to leave it in her jacket pocket, promising to have it processed tomorrow. She didn't have the heart to tell him that there wasn't a speck of pink anywhere on the swab.

"While I'm at it, there's something else I never told you," he paused, steeling himself to finally share something he'd been hiding for so long. "I'll be right back." He disappeared upstairs, and returned a moment later carrying a thin, white envelope. "I found this in my bag, a year ago, after we came home. It's a letter from the officer who was with you when you found me." He handed the letter over for Sara to read.

_Doctor Grissom,_

_We've never officially met, but we're both victims of Sheriff Patton, and I want to help you. Enclosed is a flash drive containing everything I could think of that might help you piece together what really happened. Beats me what's all in those files, but they were not easy to get._

_Patton would have my hide if he ever found out you have this information. I hope you find it useful._

_Nate Westmore_

Grissom had already loaded the flash drive into his laptop computer by the time Sara had finished reading. "I've read the letter over a few times, but I've never worked up the nerve to look at this."

There were only two files; the first of which seemed to be all about the drug that had poisoned Gil, and didn't yield much that they didn't already know. He sighed, tired blue eyes scanning the screen. "Perennial herb found near water, reaches height of ten to fifteen inches, oblong leaves, white blossoms, seeds contain hallucinogen, ancient records show it was used for religious ceremonies. Nothing new there."

More of the same followed, more trivia than useful information. "Medicinal in small doses, chemically similar to PCP, found exclusively in the area of Toluca Lake, all attempts to cultivate elsewhere failed. I don't think this is what we're looking for."

"Do we even know what we're looking for?"

"No, but we can always go through it in detail later. I don't think I'm up for it right now."

She came up behind him and stroked an affectionate hand through his hair. "Let's give the other file a quick look, then we'll stop for now."

"What...what the hell is this?"

The second file contained extensive background information on unsolved cases. It began with a list of names, and the briefest of descriptions.

_Bennet, Cybil: missing, presumed dead_

_Cartland, Douglas: missing, presumed dead_

_Dombrowski, Eddie: deceased_

_Garland, Lisa: missing, presumed dead_

_Gillespie, Alessa: deceased_

_Gillespie, Dahlia: missing, presumed dead _

_Grady, Travis: incarcerated in high-security mental institution_

_Grissom, Gilbert: found alive, returned to Las Vegas_

_Mason, Cheryl: missing, presumed dead_

_Mason, Harold: deceased_

_Mason, Heather: missing, presumed dead_

_Orosco, Angela: missing, presumed dead_

_Sullivan, Walter: missing, presumed dead_

_Sunderland, James: deceased_

Sara couldn't make heads or tails of it. She recognized James Sunderland as Gil's abductor, but the rest of the names were meaningless to her. The same couldn't be said for Gil; the terror in his eyes gave him away. "Gil?"

"My God...it's a list of victims of Silent Hill..."


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

Sara pulled up to the red light, and looked over at her sleeping passenger. It wasn't fair; he'd been doing so well this last year...why was it all crashing down now? At first she'd gone along with Gil's idea that whatever was happening just needed to run its course, but now she wasn't so sure. She'd been wrestling with a terribly uneasy feeling ever since Gil brought up Silent Hill.

How the hell did he know about that? She may have mentioned Silent Hill once or twice early on, when he asked how she was able to track him down, but neither had talked about it since. And she certainly didn't go into great detail about it. Her thoughts drifted toward the research Greg had faxed to her when she was tearing Ashfield apart, searching for Gil. She thought of the whisperings of black magic and religious ceremonies. Of the "holy scourge that cleansed the land".

Of how everyone who had claimed to see the town ended up dead.

It couldn't possibly be real, could it?

The light turned green again and Gil shifted a little in his sleep, but didn't wake. He didn't seem to be dreaming either, which was a relief. He would need all the rest he could get to face what was coming today.

Reading through that second file had terrified Grissom more than Sara had ever seen before. She felt a little sick herself reading it. Fourteen people--and those were just the ones the Ashfield PD knew about--and Gil was one of two survivors, and the only one to escape with his sanity intact. The other, a trucker named Travis Grady, suffered a complete mental breakdown after being named a suspect in a string of murders. The poor soul was a ticking time bomb anyway; he'd developed a split personality disorder at a young age when his unbalanced mother tried to kill him, and his depressed father took his own life. Being institutionalized was probably the only reason Travis was still alive. That story hit a little too close too home for Sara's liking.

Every name on that list had a case steeped in darkness; even those who became involved through no fault of their own, like Gil. Others were murderers and murder victims, and some simply vanished into thin air. One was even a suspected case of _human sacrifice_. The only other survivor was reduced to a raving lunatic doomed to spend the rest of his miserable existence locked up in a mental hospital. It was painful to even think about; could a similar fate await Grissom too?

Sara made the decision to shut the computer down before Gil could be struck with another panic attack. They had both seen too much for one day. Her mind was reeling; there _had_ to be some way she could help him, but how?

_Back to basics, _she thought to herself. _You're not _completely_ without facts._

Okay, what _did_ she know? She knew that Silent Hill actually existed once. She knew that Grissom was far from its only victim. She knew that the people of Ashfield were extremely uncomfortable discussing Silent Hill.

She knew where she could access records from Silent Hill.

That was it! She would have to call in a favor from Brass, and she'd need Gil's cooperation too, but she was reasonably sure that she could convince them to play along. It probably wouldn't yield much, but it was a place to start. In the meantime, however, there was something much more tangible that she could do for the man she loved. Gently but firmly, she led him up to the bedroom.

Her intention hadn't been to take him to bed, but to _put_ him there. He needed to rest before he literally worried himself sick.

No words were exchanged; Gil wasn't up to talking anymore. They just settled onto their bed, and she let him hold her as long as he wanted, a frightened child clutching a beloved teddy bear. His grip gradually slackened as his trembling subsided. Another lavender oil back rub relaxed him further, and Sara deemed that he was in a much better state of mind to hear her plan.

"Gil, I had an idea. It could be a whole lot of nothing, but it might help us figure out what's going on." He looked suspicious and he had every right to be, but she continued, still trying to soften the tension in his shoulders.. "I found the map of Silent Hill that led me to you at the archive in Ashfield. I still have all the contact information. They have all kinds of records and old documents in there; if you could describe what you've been seeing, maybe they could tell us what it really is. Brass can bring in the department sketch artist. She's really good, and she'll be sworn to absolute secrecy."

That was an avenue he hadn't considered before. He started giving it some serious thought when he suddenly flinched and hissed in pain.

"Sorry. Geez, I just gave you a back rub and already your knots have knots. Anyway, just think about it for a while." She stood up, draping the blanket over him and pressing a soft kiss to his temple. "I'm going downstairs to make you some dinner. Get some rest."

Handling raw chicken thoroughly disgusted her, but Sara was bound and determined to make a pot of Gil's mother's chicken soup for him. Making soup from scratch was an involved process, but it had one major plus; once everything was in the pot, it required very little attention. She was free to see if Grissom had managed to catch a catnap.

No such luck. He'd been lightly dozing at best, and he sat up as she approached. He still looked tired, but not as conflicted as before. "You and Brass have already hammered out your little plan, haven't you? You were just waiting for my answer."

She sat beside him and flashed a playful smile. "Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"Sort of. I called and ran it by him a few minutes ago. He's game if you are."

"Well, my answer is yes. It's a brilliant idea, and we've got nothing to lose by trying."

Finally! It felt _so_ much better to actually be _doing_ something, rather than just worrying about it. She hugged him and nuzzled into his neck. "Brass can bring the sketch artist in about an hour into shift tomorrow." A loving kiss to celebrate their arrangement, and Sara intended to head back downstairs to check on dinner. She was more than a little surprised to find Gil's hand grab hers again, pulling her in for another kiss.

_Hey, if he's feeling better, who am I to deny him a little lovin'?_

What began innocently as soul mates enjoying a moment of peace escalated quickly. Kisses grew deeper and more passionate, roaming hands drew purrs of satisfaction. Some small part of Sara's mind thought it was an odd time to be getting...amorous, but she decided she didn't care. She chalked it up to the emotional volatility he'd been enduring. If Gil needed this, she would indulge him.

One soft, warm hand snaked under her shirt, dexterous fingers reaching for her bra clasp. Sara reveled in the feeling; his touch was so gentle...

But something was wrong. He abruptly broke off the kiss with a sharp gasp and pushed away. "I can't...I-I"m sorry...oh God..."

She reached out to him, caressing his cheek, and he reared back as if she had burned him. She let him be for a moment and watched him settle on the edge of the bed, head cradled in his hands, face pinched in agony, half turned away from her. She couldn't tell if he was about to cry, or be violently ill. "Gil? What is it?"

He didn't respond.

_Oh no you don't. You're not playing that game again._ She rushed to stand in front of him, and a firm hand under his chin forced him to meet her eyes. "Gil, look at me! Tell me what happened."

She released him and he drew a shuddering breath. "Adam Trent..."

Another blast from the past. He'd never specifically mentioned seeing Adam before, but he'd never specifically mentioned seeing Vincent Lurie before either. It made sense, though; witnessing him holding her hostage, then taking his own life was a powerful memory.

He continued, the shame and disgust in his wavering voice unlike anything she had ever heard from him, and she prayed that she'd never have to hear it again. "He f-forced a...vision on me. H-he made me watch an image of m-myself...raping you."

Sara was floored. Her heart broke for him. He'd been put through so much already, would this hell never end? There was nothing she could do to protect him from the horrors of his own mind, so she did the only thing she could; she gathered his shivering frame in her arms and held him close, whispering soothing assurances, until he couldn't fight the exhaustion any longer.

The chicken soup was all but forgotten. She only remembered when she eventually went downstairs for a glass of water, and caught the scent. Most of it ended up being frozen for later, but one bowl was left in the fridge in case Gil wanted it when he woke up.

Hours passed, they left for work, and the soup remained untouched.

Sara had to force her own worry aside as they pulled into the lab's parkade. With any luck, some burning questions would finally be answered. She reached over and gave Grissom a gentle shake, trying not to startle him. "Gil? We're here."

So far so good; Gil was safely hidden away in his office, and they didn't run into anyone on the way in. She left him with a bottle of water, a dose of painkillers, and explicit instructions to call her cell if he needed _anything_. She felt reasonably confident that he would be okay until Brass arrived. In fact, he'd probably just curl up on his little couch and go back to sleep. Now, she'd kill an hour examining whatever evidence Nick and Greg recovered from Gil's storage locker. But that would have to wait for a little while; she had barely stepped away from Grissom's door when Catherine's head poked out of her own office across the hall. "Sara? Come on in. You should hear this too."

The entire team was assembled around Catherine's desk, all looking unusually grim. The second-in-command shut the door, and addressed her troops. "I need to be absolutely clear. Nothing leaves this room. Got it?"

Everyone nodded in agreement.

"Okay, first things first. Sara, you were just with him, weren't you? How's Grissom?"

She had to choose her words carefully. She couldn't reveal much, but she had to give them something. "He's...still pretty wiped out."

Catherine didn't want to hear that, but it wasn't unexpected. "I'm sure you've all noticed that Grissom has been...shall we say under the weather for a little too long. We could blame it on the migraine at first, but that was days ago and he's just not getting any better. Now with the panic attack yesterday, I for one am getting seriously worried. I had a nice long talk with Doc Robbins yesterday, and he's noticed it too."

Greg spoke up, visibly anxious. "This isn't right. We shouldn't be going behind Grissom's back like this."

Catherine sighed sympathetically. "I know, Greg. I don't like it either. But I don't think we have a choice. You have to know that he won't co-operate, especially since we may have to consider...drastic action."

The team exchanged nervous looks. Only Nick was able to say what they were all thinking. "Just how drastic are we talking here?"

"If my theory is correct, then we can't give him the kind of help he needs. And I think it would be easier to hear from us than from Ecklie."

Disbelief tightened Warrick's emerald eyes. "You can't be serious...are you really thinking about forcing professional help on him? I thought he dodged the post-traumatic stress bullet."

She drummed her fingers on the desk, wondering how to break the news. "It's a little more complicated than that. Going back to Gil's abduction and the drug he was poisoned with, the doctors admitted that they had no idea what to expect for long-term effects."

"Most overdose victims don't survive," Sara added quietly.

"They know it's chemically related to PCP, but not much beyond that. Now, if White Claudia's similarity to PCP extends to long-term effects as well, victims may be struck with flashbacks as intense as the original bad trip, even months later. A year is a bit of a stretch, but White Claudia is not PCP."

Nick ran a hand through his dark hair. "You think he's relapsing."

"It's only a theory right now, but the evidence supporting it is piling up. I just hope I'm wrong."

Before everyone had a chance to scatter, Sara seized an opportunity to pull Nick and Greg aside. "I'm going to need to see every piece of evidence that you guys collected from Grissom's storage locker."

"Uh, Sara," Nick began to explain, but Sara wouldn't be interrupted.

"Traces of blood, broken glass, bullet casings, everything."

"Sara, there _is_ no evidence. We went over every square millimeter of that locker after Catherine left with Grissom, and didn't find a thing. It's been vacant for months."

"Wha...nothing?! Not even on the mirror?"

The boys shared a puzzled look. "Mirror?"

Nick's face grew serious; he took a quick glance up and down the hallway, making sure the three of them were alone. "What did Gris tell you?"

Sara paled. There was no way she could tell him what Grissom had confessed. She'd never betray his trust like that. She needed to think of an evasion, and fast.

Strangely enough, it was Greg who acted. "Catherine's about to start processing that toolbox with the bloody corner that you found. Why don't you go give her a hand? I'll fill Sara in."

"Man, what's with you?" Nick wasn't angry, but he was getting concerned about his friend's uncharacteristic behavior. "You haven't been quite yourself since...well, since Grissom called me yesterday. What's eating you?"

"I'm...just worried like everyone else. Go ahead and join Catherine. I'll catch up." The mystery was deepening and he didn't like it one bit, but Nick didn't want to argue. He'd get his answers eventually. He just needed to be patient.

Come to think of it, Greg _did_ seem unusually guarded. And he just lied to Nick! It was safe to talk again once Nick was out of sight. "Greg?"

"You don't buy it either, do you? That Grissom's losing his marbles over some drug."

"I don't know. I want to find another explanation so badly, but there's just no proof."

He looked torn; clearly bursting to voice his theory to _someone_, but not sure if he should. "That's just it. What I think might be happening _can't_ be proven," he began in a hushed, almost fearful tone.

Sara urged him to continue with a single arched eyebrow.

"You're gonna think _I'm_ losing it."

"I'm willing to hear anything at this point."

A flush of embarrassment crept into Greg's face, but he pressed on. "When Grissom called Nick from inside the locker, I just got this...feeling. I can't really explain it. It happened again when we checked it out for ourselves. There was nothing physical inside, but it had this _evil_ vibe. I know 'a bad feeling' isn't evidence, but I just can't let it go. Every ounce of gut instinct I have is telling me it's really important. But what the hell am I supposed to _do_ about it?"

Sara could feel the chill as she absorbed his words. It fit in far too well with her nagging Silent Hill theory, but did she dare to share it? On one hand, Greg's research had been instrumental in finding Gil. On the other, she'd feel much better if she could get Gil's permission first.

"Greg, I believe you, and you're absolutely right about not going behind Grissom's back. Even if we're just tossing ideas around, we should include him."

His nervous energy finally petered out; he sighed and looked sadly at the ground. "This is only the beginning, isn't it?"

She didn't want to think about it, but she knew he was right. "Probably."

He looked up again, uncertain eyes pleading for guidance. "What are we gonna do?"

Sara knew how she could offer a ray of hope. It was a huge risk, but the reward could be even bigger. She owed it to Grissom to try. "There is a plan of sorts in the works. I can't go into detail, but Grissom has a...meeting today. If that goes well, I'll ask him to bring you on board. _If_ he agrees, we'll let you look over all the information we have. That sound okay to you?"

Greg couldn't find the words to express his relief and gratitude, so he simply smiled and nodded.

"I'll let you know."

_The faded numbers on the door read "312". It didn't open willingly; it had been badly warped by what appeared to be water damage. What happened here? A flood, maybe? No, he doubted a flood would be able to reach the third floor of this building. A broken water pipe seemed more likely. At any rate, the damage seemed to be limited to the hallway. The room was left in pristine condition. Directly across from the door, two huge windows offered a stunning view of the lake outside. One double bed with a pair of nightstands adorned the left-hand wall, a square coffee table stood off to the right, and between them sat an overstuffed armchair facing a small television set. As he stepped further into the room, a tape protruding from the VCR caught his attention. He was a little hesitant, but everything seemed to be powered and waiting, so he nudged the tape in._

_The picture was hopelessly scrambled, but he was able to make out a woman's voice buried inside the hissing static._

_"You weren't..."_

_The voice was familiar, but he couldn't place it. Somehow, he felt that the identity of the messenger was as important as the message itself. He wished he could understand more than a handful of random words._

_"...defied the gods...isn't possible...too powerful...restore the balance."_

_What could it mean? He lowered himself into the armchair and closed his eyes, trying to make sense of what he had just heard. _

_The door behind him gave a soft squeak as someone entered the room, but he wasn't the least bit alarmed. The presence was warm and welcome; he didn't need to turn around to know who it was. But how did she know to find him here?_

"Gil? I hate to wake you up, but Brass is ready for us."

The group assembled around the table in the vacant layout room. Brass had offered to hold the meeting in Gil's office, but he refused; he reasoned that if the setting were too comfortable, he might gloss over the more disturbing details. Treating it like a real investigation would help to keep him focused.

Brass jokingly suggested "If you really want to treat this like an investigation, I could always haul you down to PD and stick you in an interrogation room." Gil smiled, appreciating his friend's attempt to lighten the mood, but Sara silenced him with a glare that said "I could hide your body where no-one would _ever_ find it."

Brass smothered a laugh with a nervous cough. "Okay...layout room it is. Anyway, you both know Lucy James, LVPD sketch artist. You guys get to it, and I'll hang back and make sure we're not interrupted."

Down to business. To say that Grissom appeared nervous was an understatement, so the artist began with a brief introduction. "There's nothing to worry about; everything that happens here is strictly confidential, and Captain Brass has already warned me that things might get...weird. I want to do whatever I can to help. We'll start slow. This will be a full-body sketch, so we'll start with a general description, and move into greater detail from there."

Gil's hand sought Sara's under the table.

"Can you give me an estimate of the...suspect's height?"

No turning back now. He just prayed that he'd be able to hold the panic at bay long enough to get through this. "It's a good deal taller than me; I'd say seven feet."

Lucy scribbled a note on her sketch pad, and drew a quick, generic humanoid template. "Build?"

"It's on the thin side, but extremely muscular. Especially in the upper body."

She picked up the sketch pad to work, so Gil could no longer see the image in progress. "Skin tone?"

_Does "animated cadaver" count as a skin tone_, he thought bitterly. "Deathly pale."

"Okay, this is a good start. Now, what about the clothing it was wearing?"

Gil's grip on Sara's hand tightened as he was forced to recall details he'd rather bury. Was the thing even wearing clothes? It didn't look naked, but anything it might have been wearing appeared more like a part of the creature, rather than separate articles. It's wearing heavy, black boots. They look like rubber, but I can't be sure. There was something else too, but--" He stopped abruptly and leaned over the table, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand, forehead creased in pain. Keeping the monster in his mind was clearly taking a physical toll. What else was the creature wearing? It looked almost like a...skirt? No. "An apron. It's wearing a butcher's apron, stained with blood."

"All right. Let's move on to the face."

Gil's mouth went dry. "It has no face."

The pencil scratching paused, and the artist looked up. "No face?"

"It's entire head is covered with some kind of metal helmet."

The others could literally watch the blood drain from Grissom's face. He wouldn't be able to hold it together much longer.

"It's a pyramid...a four-sided pyramid, made of rusted, blood-stained metal."

Lucy worked in silence for a few minutes, using the details Grissom had provided to flesh out the rough template.

"Now, can you think of any other distinctive features?"

He'd almost left out the most important detail. "It's armed."

"Okay, what kind of weapon?"

He fought to keep his voice even as he remembered the squeal of metal against metal. "A knife. A massive knife."

"Do you mean something like a chef's knife, or a meat cleaver?"

"No, _much_ bigger. The blade is easily six feet long. It drags on the ground as the creature walks."

She was more than a little disturbed by the picture being pieced together, but she had given her word that this would be treated no differently than any other assignment. Even if the suspect didn't quite appear human.

"Now I want you to close your eyes and picture the...creature as clearly as you can."

Gil complied, but he was reaching his limit. He tried to hide it, but he couldn't suppress the tremors anymore.

Sara moved her free hand to rub Gil's back. "It's almost over."

The reveal was never easy. Most victims reacted badly to seeing their attackers. "Open your eyes again. Is this what you saw?"

Any color left in Grissom's face fled before the completed sketch. That monster, standing in the mirror, dominated his mind's eye. The scream of the great knife dragging echoed, painfully loud. He could barely breathe, let alone speak. "That's...oh God..._put it away!_"

The drawing was folded to hide it, and given to Brass as he moved to his friend's side. Gil was escorted from the room, leaving behind the remorseful sketch artist. "It's not your fault," Sara told her. "You did what you had to."

Gil's head was spinning so badly he couldn't stand upright on his own. He could vaguely feel Brass' sturdy frame supporting him, steering him somewhere, but he wanted no part of it. The beast's faceless visage was seared into his vision, overwhelming him with memories he couldn't make sense of. Everything caught up with him all at once: Sara's screams propelling him through the blood-stained maze, _yourealreadydead_, the monster stalking past as he hid in the darkness, its weapon crashing into the mirror inside the storage locker, something had to give.

Brass resisted at first when Grissom began fighting his grip. "Whoa, easy pal. We're just going to the break room."

Gil didn't need to respond. Brass was a keen observer in his own right; it didn't take long to figure out where his charge was trying to go. He let go with a pang of sympathy, and watched as Grissom bolted for men's room across the hall. Sara rushed forward wanting to follow him, but Brass held her back. "I got this one. I think he just needs some time, but I'll make sure he's okay."

Several agonizingly slow minutes passed while Sara made a serious attempt to pace a groove into the floor. Brass finally emerged from the washroom, shaking his head sadly. "Poor bastard's trying to dry heave himself inside-out."

Sensing that she would try to race in after Grissom, he kept a firm hold on her shoulders. "There's nothing you can do for him right now. He'll be fine; he just needs some time alone with what's left of his dignity. Okay?"

He was right. Gil would come out when he was ready. Sara agreed to leave him alone for a little while.

Satisfied, Brass released her. "Okay. I need a quick word with Lucy, then I'll be back. And before I forget, you should keep this." He retrieved the sketch from his suit pocket, and handed it to Sara.

She accepted, albeit reluctantly. Her darkest nightmares had never produced anything like _this_. It disturbed her just to have the drawing in her possession. Still, Grissom had suffered enough at the hands of this monster. She needed to identify it.

Her depressing reverie was broken by the appearance of a shaggy, blond mop of hair peering around a corner. A quick check to make sure the coast was clear, and Greg trotted down the hall to meet Sara.

"So? How'd it go...oh." He answered his own question when he saw that Sara was standing across from the men's washroom. "I guess it didn't go so well. Is Grissom okay?"

She subtly pocketed the sketch before Greg's insatiable curiosity took notice of it. "He will be."

"Do you mind if-" He paused, nervously chewing his lip. "Do you mind if I go check on him?"

Now how could Sara refuse a request like that? She had to wonder if Gil had any idea just how much he was cared for. "All right, but try to stay quiet. He probably has a migraine from hell right now."

Greg discovered the washroom's lone occupant in the classic "post-party" position, praying at the porcelain shrine. If it had been anyone else, he might have found a little humor in the situation. But it wasn't just anyone. Finding Grissom like that was more than a little scary. Seeing Grissom at anything less than the top of his game was unheard of. He could barely summon the energy to turn his head to see who had come in.

As soon as it registered in Grissom's mind that he wasn't alone anymore, he tried to stand. He only managed to push himself away from the toilet and slump back against the stall wall, but the intent was there. In a way, Greg thought, it was a good sign. Even though he didn't have a hope in hell of getting up without help, he was still trying to keep up appearances. Sara was right; all the guy needed was a bit of rest, and some serious de-stressing time.

And Greg knew just how to help his mentor with the former. "Nana Olaf taught me a little trick for dealing with headaches. It's not a cure by any stretch, but it'll take the edge off enough to let you sleep."

He offered a hand to help Grissom back to his feet, and led him to a sink. "Now, roll up your sleeves."

Gil was instantly suspicious, but Greg quickly reassured him. "Trust me. This totally works. Just roll up your sleeves, and run the water as hot as you can stand it."

The sink was plugged when a generous plume of steam rose from the water. A gentle hand on his back eased him forward. "Dunk your forearms and stay there for a few minutes."

It didn't make much sense, but Gil saw no harm in playing along. The nearly scalding water was actually quite comfortable once he adjusted. It wasn't doing much to reduce the throbbing pain in his head, but it was relaxing.

Eventually, he was instructed to pull the plug and drain the sink. He reached for the paper towel dispenser to dry his arms off, but Greg stopped him. "We're not done yet. I'm going to fill the sink again. This part kinda sucks, but it's worth it."

"Kinda sucks" was an understatement. The water this time was ice cold, and downright _painful _after the pleasant warmth. Still, he thought, Greg wouldn't subject him to something like this without a good reason. The former lab rat was surprisingly insightful when he wanted to be. Grissom decided to see this experiment through. At any rate, the cold wouldn't feel so bad once his arms went numb.

It seemed to take forever, but Greg finally drained the icy water, and let him dry off. "There. Does your head feel any better?"

The pain and pressure were still present, but at a much more tolerable level. This odd treatment had been more effective than any drug he'd taken lately. The scientific principle behind it intrigued him; he made a mental note to research it later.

Greg assumed a support position beside him, just as Brass had done earlier. "Now you should be able to get a little rest."

Crashing out in the nearby break room sounded like a wonderful idea. He still had to lean heavily on Greg to walk the short distance, but the younger man was just happy to help.

"Thanks, Greg. I'll have to remember that."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: **My usual apologies for the massive delay between postings. I haven't been feeling quite myself lately, but things are improving nicely and I'm excited to continue the story. So sit back and enjoy chapter 8. It's hands down my favorite so far. ^_^

CHAPTER 8

Sara sat perched on the edge of the break room sofa, running her fingers through her lover's salt and pepper curls. The day's events had been rougher on him than she had expected, and it made her that much more determined to end this nightmare. Come hell or high water, Sara would find a way.

"Will you be all right here by yourself for a little while?"

He nodded weakly, teetering on the edge of sleep.

She hated to leave him alone, but there was still a little business to take care of before she could take him home. "I just need to call the Ashfield archive, and fax the sketch over. I won't be long."

She wanted to finish this as quickly as possible; Gil was beginning to feel a little feverish under her touch. She reluctantly left the break room to find Brass taping a "no entry" order to the door. He flashed a mischievous smile. "Sanders started a rumor that one of Gil's experiments in the fridge went bad. No one's gonna be coming down here tonight."

Well, that was one less thing to worry about. Now with any luck, the impending phone call could finally net them some answers.

* * *

A brief email conversation the previous day with Tyler Madison--the young librarian whom Sara had dealt with before--set up this meeting. He wrote that he couldn't be there personally, but he would make sure that someone would be to receive the late-night call. Such was the down side of working the graveyard shift.

The kindly voice of an older woman answered the phone. "Ashfield Public Library, how may I help you?"

"This is CSI Sidle with the Las Vegas crime lab--"

"Yes yes yes, Tyler told me the whole story. The whole town was quite relieved to hear that you found your friend. You were both very lucky. How has he been?"

Sara thought of Grissom, sick from stress, pushed to the brink of collapse. "He's managing. He still has good days and bad days. That's actually why I'm calling. An...issue has come up and I need your help to identify something."

An uneasy sigh escaped the librarian. "I have to admit, I'm not exactly comfortable with where this is going, but I want to offer whatever help I can. If there is a record of what you're looking for anywhere in this library, I'll find it."

Sara loaded the sketch into the fax machine, and punched in the number that Tyler had given her. "I can't thank you enough for this. I'm faxing over the drawing now."

She could faintly hear the fax being received on the other end, but it took a moment for the other woman to return to the phone. When she finally did, it was hardly the response that Sara was expecting.

Her voice had suddenly taken on a hard, serious edge. "What the hell do you think you're playing at?"

"What? Do you recognize it?"

"I can't be seen with this," she growled, and slammed the phone down, leaving a bewildered Sara to wonder what went wrong.

* * *

Catherine hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but she overheard Hodges chatting with Mandy and Henry, sharing the latest rumors to circulate around the lab. She normally wouldn't have paid much attention, but hearing about one of Grissom's experiments going bad in the break room fridge made her take notice.

_Maybe I should look into that before Nick finds out,_she thought. It was widely assumed that after the last time Nick blew up about it, Grissom had stopped using the break room fridge for his experiments. Or he had at least gotten better at hiding them. Still, Nick had been taking Grissom's odd behaviour especially hard; witnessing the panic attack first hand had shaken him nearly as badly as Gil. Taking care of this quietly would be the least she could do.

A fairly large area leading up to the break room was completely deserted. It seemed that people wanted to be as far away as possible in case the rumors were true. It wasn't like Grissom would leave anything hazardous in the community fridge, but his nickname "Gruesome Grissom" was well deserved. She cast one last glance over her shoulder to make sure nobody caught her ignoring the "NO ENTRY UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE" sign, and she quietly slipped inside.

Something wasn't quite right; there were no noxious fumes in the room, nothing was trying to claw its way out of the fridge, everything seemed perfectly normal. So why keep everyone out?

And then she saw the still form stretched out on the sofa.

"Gil?"

He was sound asleep and didn't respond. God, he looked awful. He was easily as pale as he was right after the storage locker incident, complete with the thin sheen of sweat on his face. What was he even doing here? He should be at home, in his own bed, and Catherine was perfectly willing to drag him there herself.

She laid a hand on his shoulder intending to wake him, but she recoiled at the unexpected heat. _Oh no..._

Shifting her hand up to his forehead confirmed her fear. Gil only ran a fever with the worst of his migraines, and judging from the evidence in front of her, the poor guy was in some serious pain. It was probably too late for medication at this stage, so sleep was the only relief he'd get until this passed. She just didn't have the heart to wake him up anymore. It would be better to let him wake up on his own, _then_ take him home.

The same deeply instinctive worry that kept her at the storage facility crept back in. It made no sense. It was true that Gil didn't get migraines this bad very often--the last one had to be more than ten years ago--but it had happened before. Why did this one bother her so much? Ultimately, she chalked it up to the dread she felt at having to confront him about seeking professional help.

Or at this rate, medical attention.

Catherine sighed and gave her friend a gentle pat. For now, she would just let him sleep.

* * *

_The staircase seemed to go on forever, but he could finally see a light at the end of the proverbial tunnel. He had no idea what was waiting for him at the top, but it had to be better than the narrow, stuffy stairs he was leaving behind. _

_The door was heavily rusted, but unlocked, and it opened with a tortured creak. It lead...outside! It was no brighter than the darkness he had just come from, but the fresher air was a welcome change. Wherever he was, he gathered that he must be on the roof._

_He couldn't see very far in front of him, but there didn't seem to be much to see. A quick wander revealed that he was in a small area enclosed by a tall chain link fence. A cinder block structure that almost looked like a utility shed stood to his left. The sturdy door read "Elevator Control Room". It didn't feel overly important, but he tested it anyway. No good; the door was either locked, or rusted shut. _

_The thick, swirling fog made it impossible to see beyond the fence. Damn. The rooftop would have made a good vantage point. There was nothing else to investigate, so he supposed that he had no choice but to go back the way he came._

_He reached to open the door, but the knob wouldn't turn. It didn't feel locked..._

_Someone was holding it shut from the other side, and he had a pretty good idea who it was. He swallowed an obscenity, and slammed a fist against the door. "Lurie! Let me in!"_

_That infuriating, not-quite-sane chuckle filtered through the barrier. "Come now, Doctor. You'll disappoint your guest. He _so_ wants to see you."_

_Guest?_

_Fuck..._

_The deafening squeal of the great knife dragging made him wheel around, coming practically face to face with the helmeted monster. It growled menacingly, and he could feel the unnerving seperation beginning again; his body left behind as the beast took a stranglehold on his mind._

_"You know how to find her."_

_Terror kept his body backing toward the fence, but a surge of anger allowed him to speak._

_"What do you want with her? She has nothing to do with this!"_

_It was unmoved. "You will take me to her."_

_It was a relentless, remorseless machine bent on fulfilling an objective that he couldn't understand. Besides not having the slightest idea how to bring her to this awful place, did it really expect him to just hand her over? _

_His outstretched hands could feel the fence behind him; there was nowhere left to run, but he refused to meet its demand. Even if it cost him his life._

_"You're not getting Sara!"_

_Wrong answer._

_The creature covered the remaining distance with astonishing speed, raising its weapon. But the death blow never came. Instead, he was struck squarely across the chest by the flat side of the blade, not the cutting edge. Winded and heavily stunned by the impact, he reeled backwards into the fence, its rusted links easily snapping under his weight. Time seemed to slow as he wavered on the edge of the rooftop._

_He could have sworn the creature wore a look of satisfaction as it watched him fall._

_He never saw the rotting roof of the storey below. Darkness engulfed him as he crashed through it._

* * *

Sara slowly shuffled back toward the break room, rolling the swab Grissom had given her between her fingers. In all the worry and confusion she'd mostly forgotten about it, but now it was her last lead. She wasn't optimistic, but she had to pursue it anyway. For Gil.

And apparantly, she wasn't the only one thinking of him.

A sombre Catherine emerged from the break room, nearly walking right into Sara. She quickly concealed the swab in her hand.

"Oh! Sara! I...was just...uh--"

"It's all right," Sara explained. "The sign and the rumor were Greg's idea, and they served their purpose. I'm taking Grissom home now."

"Actually, would you mind holding off for a little while?"

"Why? Is something wrong?"

"No, no, Gil's okay. He's sleeping like a rock in there. Doc Robbins wanted to have a quick look at him, and now seems like a pretty good time."

Sara was torn; she wanted to get him home and into his own bed as soon as possible, but hanging around for just a little longer was tempting too. She wanted to start bringing Greg up to speed, and getting Doc Robbins' opinion of Gil's condition wouldn't hurt anything either.

"All right. That actually sounds like a good idea. Keep me posted?"

"I will."

* * *

Greg had fallen into an uneasy silence working alongside Nick, giving his and Grissom's cameras a thorough cleaning--especially around the battery connections. They were pretty much finished with the evidence recovered from the storage locker; the blood on the corner of the toolbox belonged to the victim, and Doc Robbins had taken a mold of the body's head wound, which he was en route to drop off. Nick wanted to use the lull to satisfy a small personal matter. He was at a loss to explain why both cameras had failed simultaneously, and a little preventative maintenance was the best course of action he could think of.

Nick was working on his own camera, and Greg on Grissom's. The memory of the strange, evil energy was still fresh in the younger man's mind, and still just as unsettling. Where was it coming from? What did it mean? He felt that he should know. Sara provided a merciful distraction when she appeared in the doorway.

"Greg? If you have a minute, can you have a look at something for me?"

He was perfectly aware of Nick intently eyeing him, but he left to follow Sara without a word.

* * *

"Wow. Just...wow. That is messed up. _This _is what Grissom saw in that locker?" Greg asked, looking over the sketch for the first time.

Sara nodded and held up the swab that Gil had collected. "And this is what he says led him to that locker to begin with. He said he followed a trail of blood drops, and he collected this sample. I can't see any evidence of blood on it, but that doesn't necessarily mean that it's not there."

Greg took the item with a solemn reverence, as if it were a priceless artifact that he didn't dare damage. "You have my word, I will run this myself."

"Run what yourself?"

Both of them jumped, startled by Nick's sudden entrance. Neither had heard him following them.

_Now _Nick was angry. "I've had about enough of this. There is something seriously wrong with Grissom, and you two know a lot more than you're letting on."

* * *

A crippling pain circulating through his head slowly brought Grissom back to consciousness, though he wasn't feeling ambitious enough to pry his eyes open. He couldn't tell if his poor abused skull wanted to explode or implode, but either would relieve the pressure. What the hell happened? The last thing he remembered was...

That monster pushed him off the roof.

That explained the pain he was in, but something was still amiss. The surface he was lying on was too soft to be the ground. Did someone move him? Where was he?

He could feel the presence of others with him, wherever he was. It couldn't be the creature that attacked him; he heard human voices. One--male, and familiar, but he couldn't place it--drew near.

"It's not the whole picture by any means," it said, "but I can get a general idea without waking him up."

A cool and impossibly gentle hand laid against his cheek, then shifted to probe at his throat. Someone must have found him after his fall from the roof; this person was obviously concerned about his welfare.

Gil was still terribly confused about his situation, but he currently lacked the means to find anything out. On the plus side, he didn't feel threatened at the moment. Quite the opposite, in fact.

His brief foray into awareness drained his meager energy, and he allowed the blackness to claim him once more.

* * *

Sara and Greg were well and truly screwed. Nick had already heard and seen too much; there would be no bluffing their way out of it this time, but he would never believe the truth. She wasn't sure if _she_ believed the truth.

And then it dawned on her. If she handled this carefully, she could placate Nick without any further embarrassment to Grissom.

"We don't _know_ anything. We're just--"

"You're sure acting like you know something. What's all this stuff?"

A half truth wasn't technically a lie, though it felt just as bad. She felt awful about misleading her friend who was only worried about his mentor, but there was no other way. She needed to steer him toward a safer subject.

"The swab is a sample that Grissom collected from the storage locker--the one that the body was in--and in all the chaos, he forgot that he had it in his pocket. It's probably nothing anyway, but he asked me to make sure that it got processed today."

Nick huffed, unexpectedly satisfied with the plausible explanation. "And that paper?"

"I promised Grissom that nobody would see it without his permission."

His brown eyes narrowed slightly in a moment of jealousy. Sara caught it, and quickly expanded on her answer. "Greg has...a certain expertise in this area. I can't share this with anyone else right now. I'm sorry."

All of the worry and anxiety of the last few days bubbled to the surface in a flare of anger directed at no one in particular. "What do you think you're protecting him from? We're his friends. His _family_. We're not gonna judge him over this. He has _nothing_ to be ashamed of here. It's not his fault! He's the victim in all this! We're just...we're..."

As suddenly as it came, it was gone, anger fading into the frustration it truly was, and he slumped dejectedly into an empty chair. "We're just trying to help him."

"So are we, Nick. We're following the evidence, just like Grissom would want us to."

A darkness passed over Nick, and he hung his head. "You know as well as I do where the evidence is leading. Catherine's right. We can't give him what he needs. I know; I've been there."

He so rarely spoke of his own near-death experience. Seeing Grissom in such distress had to be dredging up all kinds of unpleasant memories. "Just when you think you have everything under control, something happens to put you right back where you started. But I think I see your point. Admitting that you can't handle something like this yourself is hard. It must be hell for a guy like Grissom."

Sara offered the only truth that she was sure of. "He'll follow through on whatever conclusion the evidence leads him to."

Nick sighed, and stood up. "You're right, but that doesn't make it any easier to watch him struggle for it. Damn...I need a coffee."

She weighed the decision carefully. She'd gone to great lengths to keep people out of the break room, but she felt reasonably confident after their conversation that Nick wouldn't harass Gil. "There's a sign on the break room door. Go ahead and ignore it, but try not to let anyone see you."

"Something going on? I haven't heard. I've been kinda...off in my own little world today."

"I just need to keep traffic down there as light as possible for a little while, and I'll trust you to keep it that way."

He nodded and headed for the door.

"Hey, Nick?" Greg spoke up for the first time during the whole exchange. "In the back of the cupboard above the coffee machine, there's just enough Blue Hawaiian for one pot."

* * *

The only people Nick encountered were Catherine and Doc Robbins, quietly chatting amongst themselves. He assumed they were discussing the case, quite possibly confirming that the victim had accidentally killed himself with his own toolbox. He planned to find out for himself after grabbing a cup of coffee.

Just like Sara had said, a large "NO ENTRY UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE" sign was taped to the break room door. She also said to ignore it, but then why bother having it there in the first place?

His answer was waiting for him inside.

Good Lord, what was Grissom doing at the lab in his state? Even asleep he appeared to be in pain. Was there no one available to drive the poor guy home?

Was anyone brave enough to wake him up so they could take him home? Doubtful. Nick certainly wasn't.

As much as the hands-off approach hurt, he knew Sara was right; Grissom needed to make his own decisions at his own pace. He wouldn't appreciate being pushed into anything, even if it was for his own good.

He definitely wouldn't appreciate being woken up by some jerk who ignored the 'do not enter' sign on the door, so Nick set about making his coffee as silently as possible, and he made a mental note to save a cup or two for Grissom. After all, Greg didn't share his Blue Hawaiian every day.

* * *

Gil was awakened a second time by the sound of running water. The comforting oblivion was still tugging at him, but he fought it; it was time to find out just what was going on.

He forced his uncooperative eyes open, squinting at the harsh light, and pushed himself upright as quickly as the nausea and vertigo allowed. Again, he found he wasn't alone. Someone stood at a counter facing away from him. He couldn't be sure, but he didn't think this was the same man from earlier. He never saw his first visitor, but the voice sounded older than the person before him now.

As luck would have it, Nick ended up needing to dig out and open a new box of coffee filters. He made every effort to extract the utility knife from the drawer without making noise, but he heard movement from the sofa behind him.

Damn.

"Sorry Gris. Didn't mean to wake you up."

The voice confirmed that this was a different person than before. But like before, something was very familiar about this man, and Gil just couldn't place it. It felt like something was _preventing_ him from placing it. He gave his head a shake to clear the cobwebs. "Where am I?"

Nick winced. That couldn't be a good sign. "You're in the break room. I guess you must have needed to crash pretty badly. How's your head?"

Gil let out a low groan. "Sore."

The younger man paused. The coffee was beginning to brew, but that probably wasn't the best thing for Grissom at that moment. Fortunately, a better idea was close at hand, and Nick quickly filled and plugged in the electric kettle. "I've got just the thing."

Something wasn't right. The stranger's actions seemed innocent enough, his concern seemed genuine, but _something_ was stirring a deep suspicion and anxiety.

Nick, busy rummaging through a cupboard, remained oblivious to his friend's inner conflict. "Catherine's got some tea up here...some herbal, minty something-or-other, supposed to be good for headaches. It's not my thing, but she swears by the stuff."

A hastily boiled mug of tea was placed on the table in front of Gil. He took a moment to enjoy the steam, but froze before the first sip.

Fragmented images flashed through his mind. He remembered tea being poured from a thermos. An old kerosene lamp. The gates of a cemetery. A young man leaning over him.

_"Are you all right, sir?"_

What brought that on? He probed deeper into the uncovered memories.

_The tea..._

He remembered reading something recently.

_Medicinal in small doses. Ancient records show it was used in religious ceremonies. Hallucinogenic effect was key._

Things_ did_ start to go downhill after the first cup of tea...

_The tea!_

_White Claudia._

Gil was right. He did know this young man who looked so much like Nick. "You..."

His eyes narrowed as pain sharpened into anger. He set the mug down and rose from his seat. "This all started with you..."

* * *

"How can you sit and stare at that thing? Just having it around creeps me out."

Ever since Nick left the room, Greg had been studying the drawing of the hideous monster that was terrorizing Grissom. "There's something about Pyramid Head here..."

Sara cocked an eyebrow. "Pyramid Head?"

Greg shrugged. "Well, what would you call it? Anyway, I think I've seen it before."

She hardly dared to believe it. Greg would actually share what he knew instead of hanging up on her. "Really? I don't remember anything like _this_in the stuff you faxed over to me in Ashfield."

"It wouldn't be in with that. I only faxed over info that seemed relevant at the time to finding Grissom. I dug up tons more besides that." He furrowed his brow and started drumming nervously on the table. "Where the hell did I see it?"

Sara sighed; it seemed like every time she closed in on an answer, it was yanked a little farther out of reach. But she had faith in Greg. He would tirelessly pursue the slightest trace of a lead. Gil couldn't be in better hands. Which reminded her...

"I need to check in with Catherine, then with any luck, I'm taking Grissom home."

He followed her to the door. "I'm gonna see if Nick left any coffee, and see if I can run that swab for you. And I promise I'll let you know the second I get anything about Pyramid Head."

* * *

Greg wandered down towards the break room, lost in thought about his mission. His mental rolodex wasn't turning up what he needed, but he was sure he'd find it on his home computer after work. Most of his research from the original case was still there; creepy as hell, but too fascinating to get rid of.

He hardly noticed the commotion in the break room until he was right outside.

"You and that sister of yours...you were the ones that fed me this poison!" Greg watched through the partially open door as Grissom gave the mug an angry swat with the back of his hand, shattering it against the far wall. "And that's when everything went to hell."

Nick took a step back, a trace of fear emerging in his voice. "What are you talking about? I would never--"

Gil cut him off. "I don't want to hear it, Nate." He advanced unsteadily, fighting to maintain his balance. "You're going to tell me exactly what's going on."

Both younger men were genuinely scared now. What did Grissom think he was doing? Nick was backed right up against the counter, and the unstable supervisor was still closing in. "Grissom? What the hell?"

"I'm not playing this game again. You people had your fun with me, and then you let me go."

He was so close now that Nick could plainly see the sweat trickling down his friend's face, see the _madness_in his glazed eyes. He was too frozen by fear and disbelief to defend himself as Grissom grabbed the front of his shirt, and roughly shoved him into the cabinets. "_Why am I back here?_"

"Gris! I swear to God I don't know!"

Neither Nick nor Greg would ever forget the next terrifying seconds as Grissom snatched the forgotten utility knife from the counter, and raised it to strike. "LIAR!"

No time to curse himself for not intervening sooner; Greg flung the door open and launched himself at Gil.

The crazed man wasn't expecting an ambush, and Nick was able to sieze the opportunity to slip away. He was still trapped in the room, but out of easy reach. His mind screamed at him to do something, _anything_, but all he could do was watch two of his closest friends wrestle for control of the weapon.

Grissom was bigger than Greg, and frighteningly strong in his delusional state, but his opponent had the element of surprise on his side.

At first.

Once the initial shock wore off, Grissom redoubled his effort to complete the downward stab, and Greg was tiring quickly. In a flash of pure survival instinct he used Gil's own momentum against him, deflecting the blow harmlessly to the side. He knew he'd never be able to physically pry the knife out of Grissom's hand, but he needed to be disarmed as quickly as possible. A sharp downward pull to the counter should do the trick.

It sounded great in theory, but in the heat of the moment the manoeuvre was grossly miscalculated. Instead of the flat surface, Gil's forearm was slammed into the counter's edge with a sickening crack.

* * *

The utility knife clattered to the floor as he sank to his knees, cradling the injury. Breathless from the sudden pain, he looked around for his attacker. This completely changed the situation; Gil was sure he could have handled Nate, but now he was outnumbered. The party crasher seemed to be tending to Nate, so now was his chance to flee.

Regaining his footing didn't prove easy. An intense wave of dizziness washed over him, and it felt as if the floor was swaying under his feet. There was a new sound in the background as well, faint at first but steadily growing louder. A siren? Sour bile burned the back of his throat as the room swam in and out of focus. Nate recovered faster than he expected, and approached cautiously, hands extended in a non-threatening gesture.

"Easy Gris, no one's gonna hurt you. Everything will be fine as long as you stay calm."

Lies. Enough of these lies! He didn't know what Nate's true agenda was, and he didn't want to know. He wanted to get as far away from this place and this awful noise as he could.

Feverish, dizzy, nauseous, and desperate to escape this hell, Gil burst out of the break room and careened into the wall outside. Fresh pain exploded in his broken arm, and it was all he could do to keep himself upright. What the hell was happening? The very fabric of reality was warping around him.

Tiles cracked and buckled beneath him. Paint peeled from the walls and evaporated into thin air. Glass splintered and shards rained down, crumbling into diamond dust. A century of neglect overtook everything right before his eyes. The siren thankfully began to die down, but the silence left behind was even worse.

Even people weren't immune from the shift. Nate Westmore's cohort had appeared human at first, but what stumbled out into the hall was anything but. A shambling corpse lurched toward him, a translucent veil of skin covering its face, arms bound tightly around its torso; a strait jacket of flesh.

Fuck.

_I need to get out of here!_

* * *

Warrick Brown had spent the better part of the night in the lab's garage, giving it a sorely needed thorough cleaning. His MP3 player set to the decibel equivalent of a jet engine left him blissfully unaware of the chaos just outside.

All was well; the tools were neatly organized, workbenches were scrubbed down and de-cluttered, the floor had been mopped and was nearly dry. All was well until the next song on his playlist didn't load properly. What was up with that? Static popped and crackled like it was trying to read a corrupted file. Puzzled, he skipped ahead a few songs, then picked some at random. What happened to all his music? With a disappointed sigh, he removed the earbuds and pocketed the player.

Never mind his music, what was going on outside? It sounded like a heated argument. So heated that he wondered if he would need to intervene. A muffled crash and a cry of pain made the decision for him; things were getting physical.

"What's going on out here?"

Warrick barely had time to ask the question when he was violently winded by a shoulder to the ribs.

* * *

Another monster, larger and more grotesque than the first, attempted to block his escape, and Gil barrelled right into it. He caught only a fleeting glimpse of it, but that was more than enough; a roughly humanoid figure towered over him, its decaying flesh mottled a dark, sickly brown. Thick bulbous arms extended to the ground, doubling as a second set of legs. A small circle of claws like the mouth of a lamprey eel replaced conventional hands. Most disturbing of all, its entire face consisted of a single lidless eye, twitching and spinning wildly.

It scrambled to regain its footing, but it made no aggressive move. He had no doubt that he just angered the creature, but it wasn't showing hostility. It moved toward him, but it hugged the wall, keeping its distance. What kind of twisted game was it playing? It didn't look to be built for speed, but the otherwordly transition he had just endured left Gil feeling too shaken and weak to outrun it if it made a sudden move. Why wasn't it trying to attack?

* * *

Sara walked slowly with Catherine and Doc Robbins, finally on her way to collect Grissom. "There's really not much I can do for him," the coroner began. "I'm placing him on two weeks medical leave as of today, but if this doesn't improve soon, seeking professional help for him may be the only option. The department may insist on it. About the best thing I can suggest in the meantime, is to keep doing whatever you can to keep his stress levels down."

Sara's stomach lurched at the mere mention of finding a therapist for Gil. If she was right, any treatment they came up with would likely do more harm than good. Worst case scenario, he could end up committed over this! Her thoughts drifted to poor Travis Grady...

Catherine's outstretched arm brought the group to an abrupt halt, bringing Sara back into the moment. "Guys, wait...something's wrong." She couldn't make out exactly what was going on, but the hall ahead was too crowded for comfort.

A ghastly chill coursed through Sara, and she darted forward before Catherine could stop her. "Gil!"

The strawberry blonde charged in pursuit, and a stunned Doc Robbins followed as fast as his prosthetic legs would allow.

* * *

"Gil!"

He spun around and swayed dizzily at the familiar voice calling his name. Warrick almost dared to relax a little. He was rattled to the core from the tackle, and he'd been preparing for a violent showdown. He'd retained the presence of mind to block the door to the nearby ballistics lab, but now he wasn't so sure he'd be able to keep Grissom out if he had to. Who knew the old bugman could hit so hard!

"...Sara?"

Securing a weapon seemed to be the furthest thing from Gil's mind.

* * *

Sara...walking among the dead made her look even more angelic. Whatever disease had taken over the rest of the world, it hadn't corrupted her. He wouldn't allow that to happen. But how did she get here? Did she have any idea just how much danger she was in?

She was too focused on him and didn't notice the demon closing in from behind, reaching out to grab her. In an instant all thoughts of pain, fear, and sickness were forgotten, replaced by a powerful protective instinct. Replaced with an overwhelming urge to destroy anything that would do harm to the woman he loved. With a speed and raw ferocity that no one imagined Grissom was capable of, he lunged at Sara's would-be attacker.

"DON'T YOU TOUCH HER!"

* * *

Nick was just beginning to emerge from the shock-induced stupor that had paralyzed him.

_Grissom attacked me..._

He could have been killed if Greg hadn't stepped in. It happened right in front of him, but how was he supposed to accept such a thing? It just didn't seem possible.

_Grissom! Attacked me with a knife!_

The scene outside seemed to be unfolding in slow motion. Out of the blue, Grissom had launched himself at Catherine and Sara. The pair ducked into the locker room before he could reach them, and Warrick acted swiftly as well, wrestling their ailing leader to the ground. Greg jumped in to assist, but even their combined efforts were no match for Grissom's rage. Nick had to get a hold of himself before someone else got hurt!

He thought he heard someone calling his name, but he couldn't be sure. The haze of terror and disbelief was abruptly lifted by a sharp thwack across the shins from the coroner's crutch. "Nick! I need you. I can't get close enough to do this."

Nick could only stare dumbly as Doc Robbins withdrew a slender syringe from his pocket.

* * *

The creature that had taken Sara was one Gil hadn't seen before. This one was distinctly female, but that's about where the differences ended. A curvacious form and revealing clothing couldn't hide the lurching gait of a Hollywood zombie, or the layer of bloodstained bandages obscuring its face.

If this perversion of an attractive woman was supposed to distract him, it failed miserably. It was locked in with his Sara, and he'd get her back by any means necessary. If that meant breaking the door down, then that's exactly what he would do. His broken arm screamed from every bone-jarring impact, but he'd worry about that later.

The other demons were trying to stop him. The armless one blocked his path while the claws of the other raked his back and shoulders. Minor irritations at best. The strait-jacket was sent flying with a powerful sweep of his arm, and the lidless eye staggered back from a swift elbow jab to the gut.

He didn't see the third monster until it was too late.

A flash of movement from the corner of his eye, and a new, blinding pain seared through his right leg. Another lidless eye creature--slightly smaller and lighter in color than the one harassing him--stood just to the side, flexing its strange, clawed hand. The center of the ring of claws apparently housed a huge retractable spine, the tip of which was buried firmly in his thigh.

He hardly recognized the agonized howl ringing in his ears as his own.

* * *

That inhuman scream of pain and terror would haunt Nick for the rest of his days. With trembling hands he gently guided Grissom to the floor as his leg gave out. It was no small feat that he managed to remove the needle without breaking the tip off. God, the _heat_ that was pouring off of him...

There had been no time to ask what was in that syringe, but Nick assumed that it was some kind of tranquilizer. Administering it was only the first step. How long would it be before it took effect? The sooner the better, because the bugman still had plenty of fight in him.

Without warning, Grissom rounded on Nick and unleashed a devestating left hook with all the strength he could muster. Stars exploded in his vision as the fist connected with his cheekbone, then, nothing.

It couldn't have been more than a minute, but the scene Nick awoke to was completely different.

"What...where'd he go?"

The blurry figures of Catheine and Doc Robbins hovered over him, and Grissom was nowhere to be seen. He struggled to sit up, but the others firmly held him back.

"As soon as you let go, he bolted for the parkade," Al explained. "Greg, Sara, and Warrick are looking for him. He won't get too far; The haldol and lorazepam will start working their magic very soon."

If that was supposed to come as a relief, it wasn't working. "Let me up! I have to find him!"

The coroner wouldn't hear of it. "You're already getting one impressive black eye to go with that nice concussion. I can't let you go running off after him!"

Nick argued stubbornly as well, driven by a powerful, personal motive that he didn't have the time to explain. "Guys, please! You can haul me off to get checked out after. Right now I _need_ to do this..."

Catherine saw the need in his eyes, and understood. She was there when his plexiglass tomb had been unearthed. She remembered how Grissom had jumped in--risking his own life in the process--and kept him together through those last terrifying minutes before he could be finally freed. When the lid was opened, she watched as he clung to Grissom's arm for dear life. Grissom had been the only one who could truly reach him.

_"Nick? Can you hear me? It's gonna take us a minute to get you out of there, okay?"_

_"Pancho! Listen to me! Put your hand on my hand..."_

"Al," Catherine said firmly, "let him go."

* * *

Pure adrenaline couldn't keep him going much longer, Gil realized as he aimlessly limped along. He didn't know what he would do when it finally ran out. Those monsters were still after him; they hadn't spotted him yet, but they were closing in fast. Losing consciousness now could mean a death sentence, and he was no good to Sara dead. But holy fuck his leg hurt! A cold burn spread slowly through his blood, making him weak and light-headed.

_I should have figured that thing would be venomous._

With his strength bottoming out, all he could do was find a safe place to hide and pray like hell that they wouldn't find him. He could figure out what to do later, assuming the poison coursing through his system didn't kill him first.

* * *

Nick knew this game of hide and seek had to end quickly. While there weren't many places in the parkade that Grissom could have concealed himself in, there was always the possibility that he could escape onto the street. That gnawing worry grew with every passing minute.

The four searchers had split up to cover as much ground as possible, every one of them moving slowly and quietly as not to spook an already traumatized Grissom. A quiet sound echoed softly through the cavernous garage, catching everyone's attention. They all carefully converged upon the source with Nick leading the way.

They found him huddled between a wall and a parked car, trembling head to toe, retching fruitlessly. He didn't seem aware that he had been discovered.

"Grissom?"

His head snapped up and he recoiled in panic. Jesus, the poor guy was a wreck; white as a sheet, sweating bullets and practically hyperventilating, his eyes were so glassy and unfocused it was impossible to tell what he was actually looking at. God only knew what he was really _seeing_. Nick steeled himself for another violent outburst, but it never came. A spectrum of emotion passed over Gil's bloodless features: fear, confusion, then at last, recognition.

"...Nick?"

It was a step in the right direction, but he was still terribly disoriented.

"You can't be...how did you get here? Did those monsters follow you?"

It was better to play along just to keep him calm. "The monsters are gone. You're safe now."

Gil seemed to relax for a moment, but it didn't last. "Oh God...Sara! Where's Sara?!" He tensed under Nick's touch as he tried to stand, but the sedative was taking hold. He sank back down too weak to fight anymore.

Nick did his best to reassure his boss. "Sara's fine. She's just worried about you."

"But...but that monster took her..."

Sara was in fact standing only a few feet away with Greg and Warrick, but no one dared to approach. The group stood transfixed by the scene unfolding in front of them.

"Sara's fine," Nick continued. "And you will be too. The monsters are gone."

Gil shook his head, growing visibly agitated. "No, they'll come back! They want Sara. I can't protect her."

"Gris, Sara is perfectly safe."

Grissom wanted so badly to believe that, but he couldn't. "Promise me...take Sara and get as far away from this place as you can. Before _he_ finds her."

Nick swallowed past the lump forming in his throat. This was not the same man who had acted so aggressively only moments ago. No, this was his mentor, his friend, confused and frightened, in unimaginable pain. "I'll keep her safe, Gris. I promise."

The drugs were rapidly pulling him under, and defeated at last, he collapsed into Nick's arms. Only he heard Gil's slurred, pleading message.

"Leave her alone. Leave us both the hell alone."


End file.
